


Pièce de Résistance

by AllForObscureReferences



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Forced Marriage, Grief/Mourning, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Marriage, Marriage Law Challenge, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Past Character Death, Past Torture, Past Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:47:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 50,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23888434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllForObscureReferences/pseuds/AllForObscureReferences
Summary: “Then I declare you bonded for life.” Hermione had witnessed this spell several times before, by now. The first time, at Bill and Fleur’s wedding it had struck her as beautiful. She’d been crying so much at Harry and Ginny’s that it had all blurred together and seemed just like beautiful sunlight. But when the silver shower of light cascaded over her, all she wanted to do was flinch away. The electric tingles from the sparks and stars felt like cinders burning her skin. Malfoy seemed as eager to get away as she, for as soon as the pull of magic around them subsided he released her hand and stepped back.Hermione Granger has resisted the War Repopulation and Rehabilitation Act for two years, now she can no longer evade its grasp. Marriage Law Dramione. Previously titledWhen the Jig Is Up.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 99
Kudos: 190





	1. The New Minister for Magic

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, this is a fic that I’ve been slowly working on for years, previously posted on FanFiction.net. I have revised the original chapters and will be posting upcoming chapters to both AO3 and FFN, but I do not have a set schedule. I will update as quickly as I can.  
> (For anyone already familiar with this fic, I have developed a hell of a lot as a writer over the last several years; slowly but surely, I am conquering my perfectionism and just getting down to the writing. With that said, kind and constructive criticism is appreciated.)  
> Disclaimer: I am merely exploring the wonderful world J. K. Rowling has created.  
> Now, please enjoy!  
> -AFOR (April 28, 2020)  
> P.S. In light of everything happening these days, I hope you are healthy and well.  
> P.P.S. I am looking for an alpha/beta-reader and britpick-er. If anyone is interested, please let me know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I am merely exploring the wonderful world J. K. Rowling has created.  
> Hello, this is a fic that I’ve been slowly working on for years, previously posted on FanFiction.net. I have revised the original chapters and will be posting upcoming chapters to both AO3 and FFN, but I do not have a set schedule. I will update as quickly as I can.  
> (For anyone already familiar with this fic, I have developed a hell of a lot as a writer over the last several years; slowly but surely, I am conquering my perfectionism and just getting down to the writing. With that said, kind and constructive criticism is appreciated.)  
> In light of everything happening these days, I hope you are healthy and well.  
> Now, please enjoy!  
> -AFOR (April 28, 2020)

_Tuesday, 18 June 2002_

He slumped in the high-backed leather chair, legs extending, parallel, and let his heels rest on the desk’s edge. This meeting had no point. Last week’s meeting had had no point. The week-before-that’s meeting had had no point, and Michael was pretty damn well sure that next week’s meeting wouldn’t have a point either.

For centuries it had all worked fine. Ministries, countries, they had all gotten along perfectly well without this bloody machine going about and deciding to suddenly make it ridiculously—and horribly—convenient to contact anyone and everyone. Back then propriety had dictated _appropriately_ that meetings and summits and the like should be kept brief. And that was how Michael liked things. None of this rubbish about weekly updates and conferences. Did they suppose Ulick Gamp or Hesphaestus Gore or Josephina Flint or—Merlin forbid—Lorcan McLaird would have stood for such nuisances? No, the ruddy thing was just too convenient and too efficient.

A wizard could only be expected to kneel on hard flagstone with his head in the Floo for so long. But when it was as easy as dialling a two-way telephone, there was no excuse why the Minister for Magic couldn’t spare an hour each week for one of Britain’s most valued international partners. Or so he’d been told repeatedly.

 _Of course_ , Britain had to have allied back during the war with the French, of everyone. _It only figured_ that the French Minister was Gael Bouchard. And _naturally_ , Bouchard would be a bastard. It couldn’t have been Synnöve Lykke, who conducted all her meetings over gobstones and some of the finest, and most potent, akvavit Michael had ever tasted. No, it had to be the French and it had to be Bouchard, damn him.

Damn the machine too. Modelled after the early brass and steel skeleton telephones, the Magi-Phone was of course modified as magic generally disagreed with electronic contraptions. Even the simplest _leviosa_ tended to cause every digital watch within fifteen metres to malfunction, so Merlin only knew what might happen to an ordinary telephone in a place as magically-saturated as the Ministry.

Presently, its handset hovered near his ear, the roped cord snaking behind back to its base on his desk. If only it would hang limp, like muggle ones did, rather than undulating with the rise and fall of Bouchard’s voice and reminding Michael, annoyingly, that he should pay attention to whatever it was Bouchard was saying. Or, rather, bellowing. And bellowing loudly, at that. Very loudly.

For Salazar’s sake, there was a perfectly nice Channel between London and Paris that, as far as he could tell, was there for a bloody good reason. Why would anyone, ever, try to narrow all those lovely miles with a machine?

Michael wiggled his toes in distraction and caught sight of his face, reflected in the fresh veneer of shoe polish, white again now that his holiday tan was fading, and his neatly-combed black crop of hair. Then—there—at just the right angle, backwards gold letters blinked blithely at him. _PROSPERITY MORE THAN JUST A POSSIBILITY_ — _IT’S A PROMISE! VOTE CLAFTON!_

He’d hesitated for a week before he’d finally agreed to the slogan—naïvely worried that it might sound grandiose but never considering that it actually was an impossible promise. Oh, yes, Michael had made that promise with only the barest understanding of the breadth of the problems he wanted to solve, never mind what the daily chaos of running a secret nation would be like.

Since taking office just nearly a year ago, not one matter that landed on his desk had been free from confusion. For the past six months he had been occupied with the exhaustive intricacies of creating the War Repopulation and Rehabilitation Act. It was time-consuming and enervating. In February a legal intern had misinterpreted a sixteenth century Wizengamot ruling on forced marriages, and it had taken a fortnight to correct the boy’s mistake. But by then enough questions had been asked that a multi-departmental investigation had been launched to determine whether the act might also violate a subclause of the 1718 agreement with Denmark on the trade of salted fish. That had lasted through March.

Michael tilted his toes until he could no longer see the campaign advert on the wall behind him mirrored in the waxed leather. Somehow, last June’s election simultaneously seemed as if it had happened yesterday and as if a decade of minutiae had passed since. He’d run for office to bring prosperity to wizarding Britain and a year later his single accomplishment to date had been announced only in that day’s morning _Prophet_.

“Eet eez far too risky to ‘ave witches and wizards popping een and out of countries wizout ze governments knowing ‘oo zey are.” Bouchard’s thickly accented tenor climbed even higher in agitation. “Zey jeopardize ze _entire_ agreement!”

Conferences regarding a proposed amendment to the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy were going poorly and further diplomatic efforts had just been rebuffed, apparently quite rudely, by the Swiss and the Greeks.

“Eef zey do not manage to control zese – zese impertinent ministries, I will go zere myself and deal wiz les sangsues ingrate. Zen zey will not dare—”

“I hardly think that will be—”

“—les bêtes complètement ineptes nous manquer de respect.”

Michael gritted his teeth. Inevitably Bouchard dominated conversation, habitually interrupting anyone who dared try and speak. On Michael’s first call with Bouchard the man had interrupted him so many times that he’d been thoroughly convinced that his end of the phone was broken and the other man couldn’t hear him. After near about ten attempts to fix the thing Michael had ultimately had to conclude that the issue was not with the phone.

“Zey sit on zeir behinds all day and do what? Nozzing! They do nozzing—”

“I’m sure that the Bulgarians would be more than willing to help, especially after that whole Karkaroff scandal—”

“Eet eez zeir duty to all of Europe to keep our countries secure and zey ‘ave criminals ‘iding in zeir own land and zey do not even know.”

“Well—”

“Eet eez a disgrace!”

“Is that so?”

Part of what made Bouchard so particularly unbearable was his blatant disdain for the rest of the world. Michael had few disagreements with the man over actual policy matters, and yet he would gladly row with Berto Gatti about tariffs any day rather than spend an hour finalizing a joint peace treaty with Bouchard. Of course, he could never let the press hear him say that—he’d be thrown out of office by supper. Imagine: _MINISTER FOR MAGIC UNITERESTED IN PEACE._

“You will speak to ze Bulgarians, yes?”

Why him? It wasn’t as though Bouchard was incapable of calling Dinumituski Oblansk, or as though Oblansk thought much more of Michael than Bouchard. Well, perhaps he did.

“Yes, I—”

“We will need zem to agree in writing, since zey ‘ave not always been so good at keeping zeir promises.”

Oblansk would not like that, but he would scarcely be able to refuse—not when Britain and France were asking. Still, such an unnecessary and insulting request would not at all help endear Britain to the rest of Europe, and Britain was not in any position to be offending allies, given recent years. But the French were allies too—quite possibly the closest allies they had—and Bouchard was a sensitive man.

“Ah, alright, I suppose. I’ll have my secretary, Eleanor, owl your office the papers—”

“Eez zat trusted? Zere ‘ave been incidents of zese British owls going missing, no?”

“Oh?” Michael highly doubted there had been any reports of the sort. “Not that I’ve heard, but I can assure you that there won’t be any problem. Eleanor will have the agreement there by the end of the week.”

“Zat eez acceptable.”

“—no, I will _not!_ ”

At the shout Michael jolted upright, his foot inadvertently toppling a stack of paperwork and detaching from his desk various reminders, which Eleanor had meticulously spell-o-taped in place.

“Just put your wand down, you don’t honestly want to hurt anyone.”

“ _Excuse me?_ Have you forgot that I know how to use my own wand? I _am_ a witch.”

“No, I—”

“How many bloody times have I saved _your_ arse?”

“I don’t know. I only—”

She didn’t wait for him to finish. “You know damn well that you’d be dead if it wasn’t for me, so don’t try to tell me you’re worried about _my_ wand!”

“Come off it, he just meant you should wait and think about what you’re doing before—”

“I know _exactly_ what I’m doing!”

The raised voices filtered under Michael’s door in muffled fragments while, around him, forms and bits of coloured paper drifted down to join the chewing gum wrappers and half-dozen quills already strewn about the floor. The first voice, undoubtedly, was a woman, the second was a man, and possibly a third voice was another man.

“But eet might be difficult to get ze Bulgarians to agree—”

Bouchard was still speaking but Michael wasn’t listening any longer. It was impossible to concentrate on him.

“—since zey care only about zemselves.”

“I will not _calm down!_ ” The woman.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Eleanor.

The two—three?—other people ignored her.

“Just stop and think about—” a man said, the second man, if there were indeed two.

“Don’t _you_ tell me to stop!”

“We’re just as angry as you, believe—” attempted the first man.

“That’s _funny_ because you don’t _seem_ half as angry as I am.”

“Believe me, we’re—”

“No,” she said abruptly. “No, you’re not. You can’t _possibly_ be, cause you’ve still got Ginny if all of this does go to shit!”

“That doesn’t make me any less—”

“Of _course_ it does!”

“Fine. Alright, maybe Harry’s got Gin, but what about _me_ , Mione? If this happens, I’m just as buggered as you. But you don’t see me with my wand out, bursting into the Ministry.”

Between Bouchard’s drone and the closed door, Michael only caught every other clause, but he could tell now there were definitely three people. Curiosity pricked at him. In nearly thirteen months as Minister for Magic he’d experienced his handful of angry witches and wizards, but not once before ten o’clock on a Tuesday morning.

“Monsieur le Président, I really must—”

“Zey do not concern zemselves with ze matters of Europe. Zey assume we will protect zem even eef zey refuse to protect us. We must make eet clear zat Europe will not protect zese traitors.”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you!”

“Good. We’re not asking you to,” the first man said dryly.

“We just want to make sure you don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

“Oh, and I’ll regret this, will I? Honestly, I _don’t_ need you two protecting me everywhere I go—”

Whatever it was she said next was lost.

“Ze Bulgarians must be reminded zat—”

Michael interrupted again. “Excuse me, Monsieur le Président, but—”

“—we will not take zeir treachery lightly.”

With Bouchard clearly off on another impenetrable rant, Michael resumed his eavesdropping.

“He didn’t say you couldn’t—”

“I _know that_ , Ron. I know that because I don’t need permission from either of you to do anything.”

“Of course, you don’t, but would you please just listen—”

“I’ve fucking listened enough already!”

“This is an incredibly inappropriate way to behave inside the Ministry!” Eleanor’s indignant voice carried over the argument. “Please, just put your wands away and tell me what is the probl—”

“Oh, shut up,” snapped the second man.

“Monsieur le Président, I really _must_ excuse myself—something has just come up,” Michael interjected.

Bouchard paused and drew a short breath. “Eet eez important?”

“Harry, get the _hell_ out of my way!” The woman sounded furious.

“What? Oh, yes, ah, very important, my apologies.”

“Zen we will speak again next week?”

“Yes. Next Tuesday at eight thirty?”

“Zat eez fine.” Without a word of goodbye, the telephone went silent, and the handset re-coiled and dropped gently into its cradle.

_Bang!_

Noise erupted outside. Two grunts of pain, nearly a dozen other yells of surprise, and the crash of several falling objects.

“No! No, you can’t do that!” cried Eleanor.

The door burst open and Hermione Granger barged inside, wrenching her shoulder free from Harry Potter’s grasp.

“Don’t you _dare_ follow me!”

Harry Potter stepped back unconsciously at her command, one hand flying up to gingerly examine his red and rapidly-bruising cheek. A few metres further down the corridor Ron Weasley stumbled to his feet. But Michael only caught a momentary glimpse before, with a violent flick of her wand, Hermione Granger slammed his door shut.

So, this was her. After spotting her at Ministry and society functions from afar over the years, he was finally meeting her. Somehow, he had never envisioned that, in the moment, she would be brandishing her wand at him after jinxing both Ronald Weasley and _Harry Potter_ out of her way.

“I – er – Miss Granger,” he stammered. “Good morning.”

“No, it isn’t. And it’s _Ms_. Granger.”

“Oh. My apologies,” he said. “Is there anything I can do for—”

“Rescind the War Repopulation and Rehabilitation Act.”

“Pardon? I’m not sure I heard corre—”

“I said, you have to rescind the War Repopulation and Rehabilitation Act.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“You know as well as I do that you can. Lines fifty-one through fifty-eight, section twelve, article eight of the Wizarding Legislature Process Procedures Manual outline the Minister’s power to rescind laws within a reasonable period of reconsideration, generally agreed to be within three days of signature.”

Michael felt almost as he used to when Minerva McGonagall scolded him for not knowing something he really ought to have known. He steeled himself. Yes, he’d heard Hermione Granger called the Brightest Witch of Her Age, but he’d never imagined her to be such a swot. It was half funny.

“What I mean, Ms. Granger, is that I _won’t_ rescind it. I’ve worked hard to get the WRRA passed, and I’m very proud to have signed it into law. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?”

She stared at him hard for a long second, then brutally shoved her wand into a pocket, ripped that day’s copy of the _Daily Prophet_ from her handbag, and snapped the pages upright.

“You can’t do this! Haven’t you lot learnt anything? I mean, how can you _possibly_ think that forcing people to marry and reproduce is alright? You might as well just start collecting wands and registering muggleborns. I—”

“Now that’s uncalled for.”

The Muggle-Born Registration Committee had been nothing more than a translucent guise for blood purification. The War Repopulation and Rehabilitation Act was different. They _needed_ this. As quickly as their numbers had fallen during the war, magical births only continued to dwindle, fewer and fewer, each year since.

“We’re facing a crisis right now, if we don’t do something we’ll die out. The Ministry is trying to protect—”

“That’s ridiculous,” Hermione Granger said shortly. “The last war with Voldemort lasted three times as long, you lost nearly four times as many people. The birth-rate now is rebounding almost as quickly it did then. Even with the increase in stillbirths and squibs among purebloods since the first war, we’re hardly in _dire_ shape. It’s ridiculous and, quite frankly, misleading to suggest that wizarding Britain is at risk of extinction.”

The exact figures escaped Michael just then, but the memory of the worried faces and the ominous census report at that first meeting last November resurfaced vividly. He’d look at the numbers again later.

“Ms. Granger, I cannot share the data with you, but I can assure you a Ministry investigation concluded that unless immediate action is taken Britain’s limited magical community will face severe depopulation.”

“Oh, _excuse me_ if I don’t trust the Ministry implicitly, but you see, you haven’t exactly got the best record of serving the public interest,” she snapped acidly.

“I know that you have not had the best experience—”

She snorted.

After an appraising pause, he continued, “The best experience with the Ministry in the past, Ms. Granger, but I trust you will understand that drastic circumstances do require drastic solutions.”

“Again, I don’t believe that there are drastic circumstances right now, and even if there were, the Ministry has to realise that the end doesn’t justify the means. Thicknesse used everyone’s panic about Voldemort to register muggleborns and throw them in Azkaban, which was supposedly to protect the magical community from the crisis of magic theft. He said the same thing you are now. And twenty years ago, Crouch and the Ministry said the same thing when they authorized Unforgivables and essentially crippled the entire judicial and court process. You know, if the Ministry had done something to stop Voldemort instead of wasting time covering up Azkaban breakouts, so many people wouldn’t have died in the first place. If there _is_ a crisis, it’s of the Ministry’s own making! I don’t remember the Ministry being so concerned with depopulation when a lunatic was trying to murder a significant section of Britain’s _limited_ magical community!”

“May I remind you, Ms. Granger, I was not responsible for those decisions and am not to blame for—”

“You worked here, didn’t you? At the Ministry under Thicknesse? What’d you do to stop any of it? I mean, for Christ’s sake, they were rounding up twelve-year-olds and tossing them to the dementors.”

As if he didn’t already know that. He’d done a fine job of glazing over that hiccup during his campaign, and a shred of resentment grew that she would bring this up. He’d only been the Junior Assistant Head of the International Magical Office of Law at the time—what did she expect him to have done? Risk getting himself and his family killed when the most resistance he could have managed was waylaying the odd import of _Mimbulus mimbletonia_ or graphorn horns?

Not everyone could be a perfect saint.

Michael slowly let out the breath he’d been holding. “I am truly sorry that you are so upset by—”

“Upset?” Pausing momentarily to consider that notion, Hermione Granger let out breathy, derisive laugh. “Oh, I’m not upset. I’m so, so, _so_ far past upset. You see, the Ministry’s trying to _breed_ me with whoever’s got the most oats.”

“You are perfectly welcome to marry whomever you’d please,” he said more stiffly than he’d intended.

“How is three months enough time to—” Granger’s eyes darted to his left hand and then flicked over the framed photograph of Gemma and Eva. “You’re married, aren’t you? How long did you know your wife before your wedding?”

Two years, eight months, and one week exactly. He’d taken Gemma out the very next weekend after they’d met: 14 January 1995. As they were planning their wedding, they’d tried briefly to have it on the same day—it’d be a nice reminder for them—but several rows about reasonable venue pricing later, they’d decided that the fourteenth of November was just as well.

“I don’t really see how it matters, Ms. Granger.”

“How long did you know her?” Granger insisted.

Michael sighed. “I don’t know, maybe a year or two.”

“And yet you expect the rest of us to lie back, close our eyes, and think of England?”

“This is not an unprecedented measure, Ms. Granger. Warlocks governed nearly all medieval wizarding marriages, and immediately after the Black Death the Wizards’ Council ordered that no witch or wizard older than fourteen be unmarried. Arranged marriages are hardly as uncommon among wizards as they are among muggles. While _you_ may not be accustomed—”

“Oh, spare me. This isn’t about muggleborns not understanding wizarding society. It may not be _unprecedented_ but all the precedent is at least six centuries old, the last marriage compulsion legislation in England ended in 1432. Why you would want to reinstate it now as some form of, I don’t know, bizarre political suicide is utterly beyond me.”

“I am not reinstating anything.” Michael did his best to keep his frustration with her accusations out of his voice. “Obviously, the precedent isn’t perfect, that’s why we didn’t reinstate any of the old laws. The WRRA builds off the old laws but reflects modern wizarding society.”

“Rubbish! There’s a clear implication that women are supposed to stay home and care for children. You provide no childcare system, have got no plans to expand or improve childcare facilities, you don’t even give childcare vouchers. How—”

“You seem to have got quite a lot to say, Ms. Granger. Perhaps you’d better make an appointment with my secretary and come back another day. I could address your concerns more thoroughly then.”

Evidently, Hermione Granger simply—stubbornly—was not about to be appeased anytime soon. It would be just as well for him to deal with her next week, once he’d had a chance to consult with the CML, as it would be to go through the ordeal today.

“No, I don’t think I will. In a quarter of an hour this morning I found about two dozen gaping flaws even though _supposedly_ you’ve been working on this for months. I can only assume the Ministry hired baboons to write it. Have you even considered that there might be domestic abuse? Or actually thought through your ban on divorce? What happens then?”

Abuse? It was as if a silent gasp had caught in his throat. Surely, they _had_ discussed that at some point, although Michael couldn’t remember when or what had been concluded. It must have been during one of the meetings he’d missed. Yes, it must have. There was no question now, he needed to have a conversation with the CML before anything could be done about Hermione Granger.

“You will simply have to come back another day, Ms. Granger. I have got a meeting and am already running late.”

He didn’t, not exactly—at least nothing more pressing than a lunch appointment with Amarice Wildey from the Department of Magical Games and Sports, which was still a few hours off.

“You have to rescind it! You haven’t thought _any_ of this through.”

“Ms. Granger,” he began.

“Hermione!” Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley burst through the door.

“Hermione, what happened? Are you—”

“It’s fine, Ron. I was just leaving.”

Hermione Granger turned sharply and stalked out of his office, brushing roughly past Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter. Stunned, neither moved for a moment, then Weasley hurried to follow her.

“Erm, sorry about all this.” Potter shifted uncomfortably in the doorway.

When Michael said nothing, Potter nodded briefly and left. The latch clicked into place and Michael was alone.

He had done the right thing, hadn’t he?

The door opened again nearly as soon as it had shut. Eleanor’s head poked around the corner, her deep umber forehead furrowed with even deeper creases. The thin cornrows encircling her head were all pulled back into a glossy, low knot at the nape of her neck. The rest of her person quickly followed her head, and swiftly she was through his doorway with the door closed behind her. Like usual, she appeared scrupulous and intent, if rather flustered.

“Michael, I’m sorry. I tried to stop her, really, I swear to Agrippa I did. I should’ve gotten my wand out sooner and summoned security or stunned her or _something_ , but it was just that it was _Hermione Granger_ and – and _Harry Potter_. I didn’t think she would ever go and jinx someone like that. And in the middle of the Ministry, too. But then she did, and – _oh_ , I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Honestly, I don’t think much could have gotten in Ms. Granger’s way this morning.” When she still looked nervous, he added, “Really, Eleanor, don’t worry anymore about it. It got me away from Bouchard faster, anyway.”

A glimmer of ease returned to her. “Always a silver lining, I suppose.”

“Most definitely. I counted today, and I didn’t get a word in—not even hello—for ten and a half minutes.”

“I thank Merlin every day I don’t have to talk to that man.”

“Oh, speaking of that—”

“No. No, we’ve gone through this. You can’t cancel the calls. You can’t offend the French, and Bouchard’s touchy—everyone knows that. There’s no knowing how he’d react, and if it goes badly,” she stopped forebodingly, then added, “your whole legacy would be as just another imbecile minister.”

“That actually wasn’t what I meant.”

Eleanor had the decency to look mildly abashed.

Michael continued, “The Greeks and Swiss backed out on the ISWS, so we’re going to try to get the Bulgarians to vouch support—I figure they’re not really in a place abandon us—but Bouchard wants them to agree in writing. Can you draw those agreements up and get the IMOL to review them and send them over to his office by the end of the week with whichever’s our most trustworthy owl?”

“Our most trustworthy owl?”

“He’s heard rumours that British owls have been going missing.”

Eleanor laughed. “Only because Algie Mucks keeps trying to write to Morganna and won’t stop sending his half-blind and half-dead owls to do it.”

Michael laughed then too.

“Right, so I’ll get on that agreement,” Eleanor said, making for the door. “I can have it for you by Thursday morning if you want to see it beforehand.”

“Ah, I really better,” he agreed reluctantly, and Eleanor nodded that she’d heard him.

She nearly had the door closed when another thought came to him.

“Would you also make sure nothing about this morning gets out to the _Prophet_ or _Witch Weekly_? Probably wouldn’t be good publicity for everyone to know that Ms. Granger’s rather against the act.”

Worry again creased Eleanor’s brow. “I’ll talk to everyone—of course, they already know they’re not supposed to speak to the press anyhow—but I’ll mention it again. You should know, though, that – well, I think – I think I might’ve seen Betty Braithwaite in earlier this morning with that sleazy _Prophet_ photographer—you know the one. I can’t be quite sure, but I thought there was a flash just when she cast the jinx, and it could’ve just been the jinx but—”

Michael sighed and interrupted before she could begin to apologize. “Wasn’t your fault, don’t worry. But do try and see if you can get them to pull the article. Maybe owl Gervais? He’s always been a bit of a pushover.”

The door closed again.

What a mess.

He had done the right thing, hadn’t he? Their world needed this to survive? Sure, it wasn’t ideal, but this was the real world—don’t let the perfect get in the way of the good and all that, right? From below the _Prophet_ headline _MINISTRY'S NEW MARRIAGE LAW: MANDATED LOVE?_ the law stared up at him in big black letters. He knew what it would say; he had read it hundreds of times through dozens of drafts and countless revisions.

* * *

_Whereas, the events of the Second Wizarding War were felt strongly by the magical community of the United Kingdom and Ireland;_

_Whereas, the population of the magical community of the United Kingdom and Ireland is at serious risk of decimation and possibly disappearance;_

_Whereas, in the years since, no sufficient rebound of population growth has occurred to ensure recovery from the losses of the Second Wizarding War; and_

_Whereas, the Minister for Magic is authorized and obliged to take any and all measures to protect the magical community of the United Kingdom and Ireland:_

_Therefore, let it be authorized by the Minister for Magic,_

**I.** _That, as of 18 June 2002, the Department of Marriage and Family Stability shall be established to oversee the enforcement of the following._

 **II.** _That, as of 1 September 2002, each wizard or witch of United Kingdom or Irish citizenship shall be lawfully required to adhere to the following._

 **III.** _That each unmarried wizard or witch between the ages of twenty-three and forty and of United Kingdom or Irish citizenship shall be notified by the Ministry of Magic of his or her assigned spouse on the date of 1 September 2002 or upon his or her twenty-third birthday._

_a. That spouses shall be determined through magical and physical assessments to evaluate magical, intellectual, and reproductive compatibility; the Department of Marriage and Family Stability shall assess and assign all spouses based on highest overall compatibility._

_1\. That each unmarried wizard or witch between the ages of seventeen and forty and of United Kingdom or Irish citizenship shall be obliged to report to the Department of Marriage and Family Stability and comply with all required compatibility assessments on the date of 1 September 2002 or upon his or her seventeenth birthday._

_b. That the Department of Marriage and Family Stability shall be allowed to reassign spouses only with a valid petition._

**IV.** _That e_ _ach eligible wizard or witch and his or her assigned spouse shall be required to enter into a magically and legally binding marriage within three months of the younger spouse’s above notification._

_a. That each eligible wizard or witch and his or her assigned spouse shall be required to complete all licensing paperwork requested by the Department of Marriage and Family Stability within three months of the younger spouse’s above notification; that an authorized representative must witness the completion and signature of all licensing paperwork from the Department of Marriage and Family Stability._

_b. That eligible each wizard or witch and his or her assigned spouse shall be required to complete a marriage bonding ceremony within three months of the younger spouse’s above notification; that an authorized officiator from the Department of Marriage and Family Stability must conduct the marriage bonding ceremony._

_c. That each wizard or witch married prior to his or her turning twenty-three but after 1 September 2002 shall not be required to comply with article_ IV(a) _and article_ IV(b) _._

_1\. That each wizard or witch married prior to his or her turning twenty-three but after 1 September 2002 and the spouse of that wizard or witch shall be required to complete all licensing paperwork requested by the Department of Marriage and Family Stability prior to that wizard or witch turning twenty-three; that an authorized representative must witness the completion and signature of all licensing paperwork from the Department of Marriage and Family Stability._

_2\. That each wizard or witch married prior to his or her turning twenty-three after 1 September 2002 and the spouse of that wizard or witch shall be required to complete a marriage bonding ceremony prior to that wizard or witch turning twenty-three; that an authorized officiator from the Department of Marriage and Family Stability must conduct the marriage bonding ceremony._

_d. That each wizard or witch married prior to 1 September 2002 shall not be required to comply with article_ IV(a) _,_ _article_ IV(b) _, and article_ IV(c) _, inclusive of sections_ IV(c)(1) _and_ IV(c)(2) _._

 **V.** _That each eligible wizard or witch and his or her spouse shall be legally considered a financial unit._

_a. That each eligible wizard or witch shall be required to submit documentation of his or her employment, income, and assets to the Department of Marriage and Family Stability for review._

_b. That the Department of Marriage and Family Stability shall name one spouse per marriage to be the providing spouse based upon an assessment of each spouse’s employment stability and history, income, and assets._

_1\. That each eligible witch or wizard must prove stable employment and income for at least one year to be qualified to be named providing spouse._

_c. That the income and assets of the providing spouse shall be evaluated for the purposes of taxation._

_d. That the providing spouse shall be legally named the head of the household._

**VI.** _That each eligible wizard or witch shall be required to share a residence with his or her spouse._

_a. That each eligible wizard or witch and his or her spouse shall be required to have their shared residence approved and registered by the Department of Marriage and Family Stability._

_b. That each eligible wizard or witch shall be required to cooperate fully with periodic evaluations, which representatives of the Department of Marriage and Family Stability shall conduct as to verify compliance with article_ VI _._

 **VII.** _That divorce and annulment shall be prohibited._

 **VIII.** _That each eligible wizard or witch and his or her spouse shall be required to produce three magically proficient children._

_a. That each eligible wizard or witch married after 1 September 2002 and his or her spouse shall be required to produce three magically proficient children within nine years of marriage._

_b. That each eligible wizard or witch married prior to 1 September 2002 shall be required to produce three magically proficient children by 1 September 2009._

_c. That each eligible wizard or witch shall be allowed to petition the Department of Marriage and Family Stability for an exemption from article_ VIII _._

 _d. That the Department of Marriage and Family Stability shall be allowed to grant an exemption from article_ VIII _to a wizard or witch and his or her spouse if that wizard or witch provides proof of impotence or infertility._

_e. That a witch or wizard who is infertile or impotent shall be required to receive any and all possible healing services to remedy his or her infertility or impotence._

**IX.** _That the use of contraceptive or abortive spells or potions shall be prohibited._

 **X.** _That disobedience of any of the above articles by a wizard or witch shall be punished with up to a three year sentence in Azkaban._

_a. That the Council of Magical Law shall handle all violations of the above articles._

* * *

Michael had hardly stepped into their small foyer before the stress of the Ministry began to dissipate and fade amidst the profound sense of _home._ This far north even summer carried a mild chill, and tonight the evening was cloudy but inside it was warm and alive as ever. Garlic and the sounds of cooking—giggles muffled by the stove’s steady hum and the ringing of pots and pans—filled the air, and he inhaled all of it.

Only the slightest groan of the floorboards gave any indication that a woman with extraordinarily soft footsteps was approaching. Michael turned toward the noise and caught sight of her just as she rounded the corner. Her dark hair was in disarray, her eyeglasses rested slightly askew, and tomato sauce smudged her freckled forehead and emerald robes, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“I thought I heard you come in.”

“That you did,” he said, taking a step closer.

One more step and they had closed the distance between them. Michael leant downwards to meet her kiss and wrapped his arms around her as she hugged him tightly. She was so warm, especially after the nipping Hogsmeade breeze, and she held onto him like she knew he never wanted to leave.

“Merlin,” he gasped, eagerly drawing in long breaths.

Her fingers fiddled with the back of his collar, tickling his neck. “After six years I’d hope you’d know my name.”

“Gemma Farley-Clafton,” he grinned, “even if I tried I don’t think I could forget it.”

“Good.” A smirk splayed across her lips. She pecked him again on the mouth. “And I would never forget you, Michael Clafton.”

Then, staying entwined in each other’s arms, she leaned her forehead against his chest and let him rest his chin on her head. Michael could feel her sagging against him slightly, weariness evidently wearing on her. He trailed his fingers up her back, hoping to soothe some of the tension. She breathed slowly and deeply against him.

“The evening _Prophet_ arrived earlier, if you want to see it. I think your name came up a few times.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

He could feel her smiling.

“But I was expecting it might. The one that rather shocked me was Hermione Granger’s.”

“Oh, that,” Michael laughed. “Of course, _that’s_ what they decide to publish. I could have used you today, though, fantastic curse-breaker that you are.”

“Really? Why?” Gemma asked, and admitted, “There wasn’t much in the _Prophet_ , honestly. Probably just a teaser for tomorrow’s. Skeeter hardly said more than that Hermione Granger forced her way into your office this morning and that no one was seriously injured. Didn’t even say what she was so upset over. Most of the article was going over the act and everything. Was there trouble or—”

 _“Mumma!”_ wailed Eva.

“Impeccable timing.” Gemma sighed.

He nodded. “As always.”

Gemma brushed a hand along his arm, sending a thrilling shiver down his spine. “I’ll see to Eva. Go get cleaned up, take your time. Dinner should be ready in a quarter of an hour.”

“No, you’ve been working all day. I’ve got Eva.”

Her brow wrinkled. “Are you—”

“Of course I’m sure.”

_“Mumma!”_

“Mummy will be right in, sweetheart,” Gemma called, extracting herself.

Michael let go reluctantly and followed her down the hall to the kitchen. He lingered at the door, watching, as Gemma went to Eva and took her up in her arms, rubbing soothing circles across the almost-one-year-old’s back.

“Eva, guess who’s just gotten home.”

Eva stopped crying and looked up at her mum, spotting him over Gemma’s shoulder.

“Dada! Dada, Dada, _Dadaaa!_ ”

“You want Daddy? But Daddy’s got a penchant for unparalleled tyranny, hasn’t he?” Gemma cooed to Eva teasingly, no doubt quoting some line she’d stumbled across in one of the opinion pieces from the _Evening_ _Prophet_.

“Isn’t that right, Eva? He’s a deluded despot, keen on returning to monarchy. He’d probably even make you eat your peas. Mummy’s much, much nicer, aren’t I?”

“Dada!” Eva insisted, making him laugh.

His chest thrummed with an almost painful happiness as he lifted his daughter from his wife’s arms. Her face was still red from crying as she squinted up at him. He stroked the brown hairs that fell across her forehead.

“Don’t you listen to Mummy, Eva. As king I’d imprison anyone if they ever so much as tried to make you eat vegetable. Even Mummy.”

“Ruthless.” Gemma shook her head as she returned to whatever was steadily boiling away on the burner.

Within a minute Michael’s novelty and distraction value had worn through, however, and Eva began to cry again. It took another few minutes to discover that Biba, Eva’s stuffed rabbit and constant companion, had fallen out of reach.

Dinner passed, Michael feeding Eva while Gemma ate, then hurriedly scrambling to finish his own spaghetti before it cooled. They snatched hardly five uninterrupted minutes together during the whole meal before Eva began to squirm and Gemma had to take her upstairs for bath and bed while Michael did the washing up.

But Eva was finally asleep, the silence water upon parched ears. Tiredness ached in his forehead, begging him to close his eyes. Light footsteps turned into the room and Gemma collapsed onto the opposite end of the couch.

“H – how was Gringotts?” he asked, through yawns.

She didn’t answer, only watched him. “Long day?”

“Well, you’ve already heard all about it. I haven’t heard about yours though.”

Gemma ignored the prompt. “Like I said, the _Prophet_ only really said that Hermione Granger came into your office, and jinxed Potter and Weasley but didn’t injure anyone too badly, and not much else.”

“Well, that’s most of it. She, Potter, and Weasley came in yelling at each other and by the time I finally got off the phone with Bouchard she’d jinxed them both—knocked Weasley to the floor and Potter’s probably going to bruise. Of course, by the time they got through the wards, everything had been healed.”

Gemma frowned a little. “I didn’t know your office had got wards.”

“Oh, a few—mostly just to prevent theft—nothing too complex. But she put her own up to keep everyone else out. I didn’t even notice, she did this one little flick to close the door and I thought that was all, but she’d set up this whole network that they needed a curse-breaker to get through.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“So, she was upset about the law?”

Michael sobered. “What else?”

Gemma opened her mouth.

“Tea?” he blurted.

He didn’t wait for an answer but got up and walked into the kitchen.

He could have made it magically, but this way he didn’t have to face Gemma. No doubt, behind him, Gemma was sat, half up, propped on her elbow, staring confusedly after him. Ignoring how his spine tingled under her gaze, Michael rummaged for a kettle.

It seemed impossible to think that with half of the Council of Magical Law’s staff working on the law no one had considered that there might be domestic abuse. Or that the law could put a strain on childcare facilities and working parents. How many more mistakes would there be? How many more months of work would it take to fix all the mistakes Hermione Granger would uncover? For all the doubts plaguing Michael, he had no doubt that she would uncover mistakes. That wickedly angry look in her eyes as she’d stood in his office had assured him she would.

Hermione Granger had stoked dozens of doubts in his mind and he wanted, at least for now, to entirely ignore the possibility—the probability—that she was right. They needed more babies. It wasn’t the law that concerned him precisely, but his increasing sense that, somehow, he couldn’t have taken a worse approach to it.

“Hey.”

He jumped when Gemma touched his back. As usual, her footsteps had been silent.

“Hey, look at me.” She reached around him and held his wrist, pressing insistently until he turned. “Listen to me. _I_ still think you made the right choice. And twenty years from now when everyone else finally realises that too, they’ll thank you for it.”

He shrugged. Wizarding Britain desperately needed the law, but Michael highly doubted he would wind up on the right side of history.

“I mean it, Michael. I think you did the best thing you could’ve done given everything.”

He shrugged again.

“Michael, you—”

“Tomorrow. Can—” he faltered, feeling a desperate lump form in his throat. He summoned a cough. “Can it wait until tomorrow? Please?”

Gemma nodded.

Silence lingered a minute longer.

“Anyway, I had the _delight_ of talking with the Deputy Head of the Improper Use of Magic Office for an hour today. I was so close to throttling the humourless, old relic.”

Michael put the kettle on the stove and smiled, listening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed—or didn't—any and all reviews are very much welcome and appreciated. I really love hearing your feedback, constructive criticism, or rambling thoughts and reactions. Thanks so much for reading!  
> P.S. Chapter Two: The Campaign Against the Minister will be up shortly!  
> P.P.S. I am looking for an alpha/beta-reader and britpick-er. If anyone is interested, please let me know.


	2. The Campaign Against the Minister

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I am merely exploring the wonderful world J. K. Rowling has created.  
> Alright, so this one’s a bit of a mishmash. My intention had been to give Michael just one chapter, but there was just so much more he needed to say. So, it seems Michael just lucked out. But I promise this is the last from him. Anyway, this chapter is kind of timed perfectly (May 2nd and all), so I hope you enjoy. This is a little bonus, but going forward I’m looking to update weekly, probably Saturday/Sundays.  
> In light of everything happening these days, I hope you are healthy and well.  
> Thank you for all your lovely reviews!  
> -AFOR (May 2, 2020)

_Saturday, 13 July 2002_

A one-year-old’s birthday party was more for the parents than anyone else, Michael supposed. It was well-before Eva’s conscious memories would begin. Still, knowing that didn’t help to reassure him. Gemma had settled into a tense calm, but Michael couldn’t help double and triple checking that the appetisers hadn’t disappeared in the last two minutes.

He could hardly remember the last time they’d hosted—long before Eva and maybe even before he’d become Minister. There felt like an awful lot of pressure to keep up appearances. Why were they doing this again?

“If you rearrange anything else on that table again, I _will_ petrify you.”

Michael looked up. Gemma had an eyebrow cocked and the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

“I – I just ….”

“Oh, relax.” She pushed off the couch, moving towards him and taking his hands in hers. “Or have you forgotten how to talk without swarms of reporters watching you?”

Michael smiled and wrapped her in a hug.

Within a quarter of an hour the noise from fifteen children and their parents had swallowed the house.

Strangely, most of the children were significantly older than Eva but, as Gemma had explained with pointed patience several times, it was really the parents they were inviting. The only reason that the party was child-friendly was so that he and she wouldn’t be _those people_. Apparently, it was an inconvenience to invite parents without inviting their children. So here he was: in the midst of absolute chaos.

The very few _actual_ one-year-olds hovered in their parents’ arms above the frenzy, looking on over the fray with avid confusion. Michael spotted Eva in Gemma’s grasp across the room and in the name of relieving Gemma he deliberately extricated himself from Brennan Doyle’s opinions on the new Firebolt redesign.

With Eva as a shield, Michael managed to sequester himself in the back garden for the better part of half an hour, before the need to nap overtook her good spirits. Once he cast a modified quietening charm on her nursery, Eva was out like a light—any noise she made could be heard from below, but the bustle wouldn’t reach her. Reluctantly, he trudged back downstairs.

The afternoon wore on and he found himself in one after another after another dull conversation. He was just hearing from Chester Davies and a pregnant Angie Cole about their daughter’s recent escapades in primary when Angie none too subtly flashed the new ring on her left hand.

“Congratulations to you both!” Michael said, clapping Chester on the back. “I hadn’t heard you’d gotten engaged. Lovely ring by the way.”

“We weren’t exactly planning on it,” Angie glanced up at Chester next to her, “but with another one on the way and, you know, _given_ – we just thought, why keep putting off the inevitable?”

 _Given_. Huh. As though Michael wouldn’t know what that meant.

Though not unheard of in the wizarding world, Chester and Angie were one of the rare couples with children out of marriage. Both were safely into their thirties and would undoubtedly be subject to the law once it went into effect in September.

_Given._

Michael cleared his throat. “So, when’s the happy day?”

“Originally Chess suggested August, but it really seemed _far_ _too soon_ to put anything together,” Angie said. “So, we’re going to go to the Ministry on – what is it, the twenty-ninth?”

“Er, yeah, the twenty-ninth,” confirmed Chester.

“Right,” Angie continued. “We’re going to get the papers and official bond but that’s just for the – you know. But we’re having the _real_ wedding next July. And Chess had the sweetest idea for us to think of our engagement as going until we have our _real_ ceremony with our families and this little guy.” Angie jiggled her belly.

“I knew that you’d always wanted a big summer wedding,” Chester said. “And, honestly, there’s no reason why some stupid law should ruin that.”

“Even if it isn’t what I’d always imagined I know it’ll still be amazing, you know, _given_ ,” Angie said and grazed Michael’s shoulder with another of her icy glares.

Most of the wizards and witches in Michael’s home this afternoon were married and very much consumed in the corralling of their children, which provided him relative safety. Nonetheless, he sensed intense dislike radiating off all three unmarried witches present and several of married ones as well. Angie seemed intent on demonstrating her dislike as clearly as possible without escalating beyond rather _passive_ aggression.

The past month had been such a whirlwind. Outside of one or two odd dinners with close friends, Michael had hardly spoken to non-workplace acquaintances or friends since the announcement of the WRRA. And now his home was bursting with them. Of their roughly fifty guests only half a dozen or so were seething silently. Then again, more than a quarter of the guests were children who—Michael assumed—did not read the _Daily Prophet_ or follow any other wizarding news.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” Gemma said, suddenly at his shoulder.

“Not at all,” Chester said.

“I just knew that you wanted to catch John before he left.” Gemma pecked Michael on the cheek.

“Yes, yes. Thank you.” Michael glanced at Angie and Chester. “My apologies, I’ll have to hear more about your wedding in soon. Please excuse me.”

He turned away, blessing Gemma.

“Wedding? When did that happen?” Gemma asked behind him as he waded through their crowded dining room.

“ _Given_ – well, _you know_. Chess took me out to dinner the next weekend and asked me.”

“In the middle of the restaurant?”

“No, _thank Merlin!_ ”

Michael squeezed past another circle of Gemma’s friends and made it out into the hall and up the stairs. There was no John, and Gemma was the best.

* * *

_Friday, 20 September 2002_

What had that been about? Michael didn’t think he knew the witch, but there were so many people about nowadays he couldn’t be quite sure.

“The strangest thing just happened,” he said as he neared Eleanor. “I was just getting out of the lift and this witch going the other way whispered to me, ‘It’s your lucky day, Minister.’ I mean, it was like some hag had crawled out of the woods.”

Only now did Michael notice that Eleanor seemed positively cheery, listening gleefully as she tried to smother a cat-got-the-cream smile.

“It’s her birthday!” Eleanor said excitedly, no longer able to contain herself. “Or, at least it was her birthday.”

“Whose?”

“Hermione Granger’s!” Dissatisfied with his reaction, she went on, “She’s _eligible_ now.”

“Well, that’s interesting.”

Michael hadn’t realised that the WRRA was so imminent for Hermione Granger that it was all but knocking at her front door. Which perhaps offered some insight into her inexplicably dogged relentlessness. Maybe, Merlin willing, this would put an end to her crusade.

All through the summer, she’d taken out adverts in the _Prophet_ and _Witch Weekly_ calling for the repeal of the WRRA. Lovegood’s _Quibbler_ had even featured a full interview with Granger, although that hadn’t been much more than an anarchist opinion piece. For all her efforts, she had succeeded in forcing them to amend the act.

After that first night, Michael had managed to stifle his doubts about the law. Drawing upon the reserve of frustration that the witch readily supplied him with, he could push those nagging suspicions from his mind. Every late night he worked, all the bedtimes he missed kissing Eva goodnight, and each Saturday afternoon Gemma and Eva went to the park without him only added another barrelful to his supply.

“Who’s the lucky wizard?” he asked.

“No one knows yet,” Eleanor said. “She was just arrested last night.”

“Arrested? For what?”

And more importantly, why hadn’t someone told him?

“She didn’t report for her compatibility assessments and when they went to her flat, she wasn’t there. Apparently, it took _three_ aurors an entire day to even find her, and then she resisted arrest and another two more had to be called in.” Quieter, Eleanor added, “I heard she stunned the first three with just one spell.”

“And no one at the DMLE thought it worth mentioning to me that _five_ aurors were chasing down Hermione Granger? Or that she’d been arrested?”

Eleanor shrugged. “Take it up with Robards. I only heard about it because Megan worked late last night and saw them bring Granger in. Do you want me to make an appointment for you with Robards?”

“Yes, please do.”

Head Auror Robards better have some hell of an explanation. Michael couldn’t quite determine whether this fiasco was all testament to Hermione Granger’s cunning or to the staggering incompetence of the aurors. Either way, it seemed that Granger wouldn’t be pitching any less of a fit even now that the law had gone into effect.

“Blast,” he muttered.

“If it makes you feel any better there’s a bet going for who she’ll get matched with.”

Michael smiled. “A little. Who’s in so far?”

“Oh, just some of the girls down at the DMFS and a few more over in Magical Law. I put my money on that Atkins bloke—you know the one with the crooked nose—I think he works in her old department.”

He laughed. “As long as the _Prophet_ never learns. Even Skeeter would side with Granger if it ever got out that Ministry employees were betting on matches. Probably think we were tampering with the tests or something.”

“The bitch deserves it.”

“Honestly, I’m surprised the CML weren’t the ones to start the pool.”

In the last three months Eleanor, the Council of Magical Law, the Department of Marriage and Family Stability, and a good portion of the Ministry’s secretarial staff had come to thoroughly loathe Hermione Granger.

“Oh, they might’ve been,” Eleanor said breezily. “I’m not exactly sure who did, but I think someone might’ve said they’d heard it was Denise Edington. Or was it Dennis Edington?”

“That reminds me, are the latest revisions from the CML in?” Michael asked.

“Already on your desk.” She snatched up the day’s briefing memos from her desk and passed them to him along with the morning _Prophet_.

“Thanks, and – well, better not … ah, screw it. Put me down for two galleons on Wallace.”

“Wallace?”

“Muggle Liaison Office.”

“The one trying to allow muggles into Hogwarts?”

“Exactly,” he said.

“Merlin, how hasn’t he been fired yet?” Eleanor mused to herself.

Michael opened his door and stopped short.

Hermione Granger sat behind his desk, looking appropriately worse for wear.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in a holding cell?”

“I was released this morning,” said Hermione Granger calmly.

“What? There’s someone there?” Eleanor scrambled up from her desk and peered around him. Her face fell in horror. “Oh, no. I don’t – I don’t know how she got in. I’ve been here since eight and I—”

“I was here by then,” Granger said shortly.

“But – but I came in and you weren’t—”

“Just a simple disillusionment charm.”

“Oh. Oh, I’m – I’m so—”

Michael shook his head, letting her know he wasn’t upset, and stepped into his office. What, with the constant media maelstrom of late, Eleanor was more sensitive than ever.

“Just keep the curse-breakers at the ready,” he said sardonically and closed the door.

Michael itched to inspect his paper-strewn desk—his whole office, really. Unsupervised amidst highly-classified Ministry documents for hours, there was no knowing what Granger might have rooted through and uncovered. The sly, nearly invisible pull of Granger’s lips told Michael that she’d precisely guessed his urge and she was relishing it. _Shit._ This was going to require a serious review of Ministry security protocol and, likely, a good deal of unnecessary hassle for him. He really needed better wards.

Granger, who had not yet made any movement to rise, now unhurriedly stood and circled his desk. She conjured a rich, comfortable armchair, and had already sat before he’d finished making his way around to his chair. As she waited for him to settle himself she rubbed unconsciously at her left forearm. Michael wondered if her arm had been injured during her escape attempt, given a poorly healed bruise on her right cheek and several other scabbed scratches on the left. Her wrinkled and ripped clothes confirmed that she’d spent the night in a holding cell or interrogation room. Probably the aurors hadn’t taken much care to thoroughly heal her injuries, yet she hadn’t bothered with them once she’d had her wand returned to her.

Once he was seated, she spoke. “I would have thought that you’d have been told to expect me. I did make it _quite_ clear that I would be speaking with you imminently.”

Michael would have thought so as well. He could imagine, vividly, just _how_ clear she’d likely made herself. He should have been notified of her arrest immediately. Hell, he should have been notified when she didn’t submit for testing. And now he had a publicity nightmare on his doorstep without any notice.

But he only grimaced. “I must say, you don’t seem too out of sorts.”

“Yes, well, the arrest was actually quite convenient.”

The satisfaction radiating off of her couldn’t mean anything good, but he had to bite.

“You found it _convenient_ to evade three aurors for an entire day?”

Granger rolled her eyes, and said insouciantly, “I was out of the country. I didn’t get back until Wednesday. And when I did, I found that three men were following me without any explanation, so I kept away from them. I hardly think I acted unreasonably. I certainly didn’t intentionally _evade_ anyone.”

Given the slight tan to her skin and her muggle clothing he almost believed her, but _still_.

“I can tell you that my first reaction to someone following me wouldn’t be to stun them.”

Her eyes flashed coolly. “Well, only one of us fought in a war.”

It was remarkable how effectively she managed to suck all the humour out of a room with a single sentence.

Michael sighed. “What is it that you want today, Ms. Granger? Can I look forward to being personally sued by you? Or have you decided to attempt to abolish the entire DMLE?”

“Despite what you may think, I don’t just decide to antagonize the people I don’t like. My protests against your law aren’t personal, I truly think it’s an abhorrent piece of legislation.” She paused, then added, “And I wouldn’t dream of putting Harry out of a job.”

Right, Potter was an auror. And making his way steadily up through the ranks if Michael wasn’t mistaken. Given that, was it even possible that she could have _not_ known the aurors were searching for her?

He doubted it.

“Of course. But again, you are here why?”

“Two of your aurors forcibly removed samples of biological material from my person without my consent and against my,” Granger smiled wanly, “ _strong_ objections. Which, I believe, constitutes an invasion of privacy. I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear that I am not suing you personally, only the Ministry.”

“Yes, what a great relief,” he said sarcastically.

Her eyes narrowed. “So, until the Council of Magical Law declares that your aurors were legally allowed to forcibly coerce me to relinquish sensitive data about myself, I’m afraid that the use of my samples for any testing, matching, et cetera is prohibited. So, to answer your question, yes, the incompetence of your aurors really is rather convenient.”

Michael stared at her. _Fuck._

There was no way he would be waiting for an appointment with Robards anymore. What type of department was that man running? Shacklebolt was gone on holiday for a fortnight and the entire DMLE was in shambles. Merlin help those wizards when Michael found them.

Hermione Granger stood, and calmly said, “Please pass along my appreciation to Savage and Williamson.”

* * *

_Sunday, 22 September 2002_

_GRANGER ON TRIAL: THREE AURORS STUNNED. MINISTRY IN SHAMBLES?_

_-Rita Skeeter_

_Readers, your ever-faithful reporter has received word from a rather mysterious fly on the wall about the latest misdoings of Miss Hermione Granger. (Some of our long-time readers may remember Miss Granger from her past romantic exploits with Ronald Weasley of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, famed Quidditch star Victor Krum, and of course, the Boy Who Lived himself: Harry Potter.) Miss Granger chose to celebrate her twenty-third birthday on Thursday by committing upwards of four imprisonable offences, which is perhaps the most unusual birthday party theme that this reporter has ever heard of._

_With the passage of the War Repopulation and Rehabilitation Act in June, (of which Miss Granger has been a vocal critic) Miss Granger was required to submit for mandatory compatibility assessments on Wednesday. This was the latest attempt by the DMFS to reach Miss Granger, after she had rescheduled two appointments already. However, at her appointment Wednesday morning there was not hide nor hair of Miss Granger._

_Although Miss Granger was aware of the WRRA since its announcement and has become keenly aware of its details through her ‘activism’, she has made no attempt to date or find herself a husband, instead focusing on criticizing the act in nearly every publication in wizarding Britain. Perennially single since her public breakup with Ronald Weasley three years ago, Miss Granger has had little luck with love. Without any romantic prospects, she is expected to be assigned a match based upon Ministry compatibility testing under WRRA guidelines._

_So, on Wednesday morning, when Miss Granger was conspicuously missing from her official appointment, Ministry officials were immediately on high alert. Within hours, the DMFS had notified the DMLE, and quickly Aurors Savage, Williamson, and Hale were dispatched. Head Auror Robards has said he cannot confirm or deny any details of the incident except that an arrest had been made and the individual has been released (on bail). However, a reliable source reports that Savage, Williamson, and Hale found Miss Granger’s apartment empty when they arrived Wednesday afternoon. It wasn’t until Thursday afternoon that aurors were able to locate and surround Granger. When Auror Savage approached, Granger lashed out, stunning all three aurors. (Head Auror Robards was able to confirm that all three aurors are expected to make full recoveries.) Granger disapparated away from the scene. Reinforcements were called in and the pursuit continued into the evening on Thursday, when Aurors Patel and Langarm finally made an arrest shortly before midnight._

_Miss Granger declined my request for comment. For the sake of decency, we cannot print her refusal._

* * *

_Wednesday, 16 October 2002_

_FURTHER CHANGES MADE TO WRRA. MINISTRY IN PANIC_

_As of Wednesday morning, slight changes were finalized to the War Repopulation and Rehabilitation Act. Following the effectivation of the War Repopulation and Rehabilitation Act (WRRA) in September, the Clafton administration has been working tirelessly to amend the act in response to public confusion and frustration._

_Though the Council of Magical Law and citizen petitions have recommended upwards of twenty amendments, only a select few passed the Wizengamot’s vote this morning. Most of the changes focus on revisions to the original language of the act. Dennis Edington, a legal advisor to the Minister, explained, “We realised pretty quickly that there was some confusion among the public about what the law means. What we’re trying to do with these amendments is get rid of that confusion.”_

_One major revision is to the age inclusion parameters specified in article_ II. _Concerns had been raised that the original language of the law was unclear whether witches and wizards would “age out” of WRRA eligibility upon turning forty. The new language clarifies, for any confused readers, that any witch or wizard who was forty on 1 September 2002 will remain eligible in perpetuity. …_

 _… Just last week, Demelza Robins wrote in to the_ Daily Prophet _’s own Grizel Hurtz, asking whether she (age 20) is required to marry the wizard (age 28) who has been assigned her as his spouse. Now, Miss Robins has her answer: No. Any witch or wizard may marry who they please until their twenty-third birthday, when they become eligible. …_

 _… The addition of clause_ V(e) _explicitly grants the DMFS the ability to reassign the providing partner with a valid petition._

_Edington explained, “V(e) is just meant to help streamline the process for the public.” He added, “We want to make this all as easy as possible for witches and wizards—just a simple form.”_

_But Hermione Granger, an outspoken opponent of the WRRA, disagrees. “They’ve had queues out the door every day,” said Granger. “V(e) is just another way to bureaucratize our freedom and disenfranchise us. I cannot express how deeply disappointed I am in my government.”_

_Asked what she would like to say to lawmakers, Granger said, “I really just want to ask them how they can say a twenty-page document is a simple form. Anyone with a brain knows it’s not.”_

_Granger also had thoughts on the new changes to co-habitation guidelines. “It’s not nearly enough,” she said. “And why didn’t the Ministry think of this in the first place? What if somebody has to travel for business? Or care for a sick relative?”_

_Although, the Wizengamot’s amendments loosen the existing guidelines for co-habitation, spouses must still live together for the majority of the year and specially apply for an exemption if travel needs interfere. …_

_… Asked about the infertility exemption, Hermione Granger responded, “Sometimes I wonder if the entire Ministry isn’t confunded.”_

* * *

_Thursday, 9 January 2003AMIDST INTERNAL FRENZY CLAFTON CHANGES LAW_

_Significant amendments were made to the WRRA, granting witches and wizards the right to petition for reassignment of spouses as well as providing partners …_

_… and was called “a no brainer” by Hermione Granger. Granger has been a vocal critic of the Ministry’s WRRA legislation …_

_… Further changes as well to the review process of providing partners and taxation … which has been on the minds of many witches and wizards uncertain how best to approach the coming tax season. …_

* * *

_Monday, 12 May 2003_

_CLAFTON OVERHAULS WRRA? WILL THERE BE A REPEAL?_

_It seems the latest wave of anti-WRRA rumours are upon us, leading many to wonder if Minister Clafton may finally cave to the demands of protesters. For months now, public debate has raged about the War Repopulation and Rehabilitation Act that the Clafton administration passed last June._

_The most recent batch of Wizengamot amendments respond to public criticism that the WRRA perpetuates and enables domestic abuse._

_In a statement released this morning, Minister Clafton expressed his confidence that the Ministry is able to thoroughly protect the public from such threats._

_“We’re very worried, obviously, about anyone being hurt due to the WRRA. But it is our belief that appropriate measures have been taken to prevent this type of abuse.” …_

_… Experts are spilt on the matter, but all agreed that the Ministry’s amendment to allow divorce is a step in the right direction. Still some say that more must be done. … “It’s just we know that most witches don’t report, and when you add a child or several children to the mix, then there is even less opportunity for a witch to get help.”_

_But the new change to allow limited contraceptive use for couples with three children may improve conditions for witches. Even so, …_

* * *

_Tuesday, 21 October 2003_

_LAW CHANGES TO ACCOMMODATE SQUIBS AND MUGGLES_

_Following a Wizengamot vote yesterday, a number of amendments have been added to the WRRA to accommodate muggle and squib spouses of witches and wizards. (See list of changes below.) This shocking change of heart from the Wizengamot may largely be attributed to the efforts of Hermione Granger. For years the Wizengamot has dismissed or ignored inter-magical marriages … However, several new Wizengamot members have begun to change that … Overall, this may indicate shifting attitudes among the magical and pureblood establishment toward muggles and muggle-born witches and wizards. …_

_… One setback did come with the requirement that all providing partners be magical. … “Of course, I’m disappointed,” Granger said. “I’m furious.” …_

* * *

_Friday, 16 April 2004_

_NEW WRRA QUOTA: TWO CHILDREN, NINE YEARS_

_As of Thursday afternoon the WRRA has been amended to lower the child quota from three children to only two. …_

* * *

_Sunday, 2 May 2004_

“You’ll be home by five?” Gemma asked again.

“Of course, quarter past at the latest.”

“You promise?”

Leaning across her six-month pregnant belly, Michael pressed his forehead to hers. “I promise.”

“Okay.” Gemma breathed out deeply, one hand rubbing circles over her stomach. “Okay. Because your parents are coming at six and—”

And her family had been murdered six and a half years earlier. The anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts was a difficult day for nearly everyone, but it always seemed to make Gemma’s grief raw again. It didn’t help that this year his parents had rather forcibly invited themselves for dinner in a misguided gesture of support. Sometimes Michael would catch glimpses of what looked like jealously in her eyes when his parents visited. He knew that it hurt her to be reminded of what she no longer had.

“Listen to me, I promise I will be home not a minute later than quarter past five.”

Gemma nodded. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Michael called for Eva. Together they stepped out onto the stoop, and squinting in the spring sunshine, Michael headed towards into the centre of Hogsmeade with Eva.

The village was bustling, though without any of its usual cheer. Instead the crowd milled sombrely under the Hogwarts gates and further on towards the Great Lake, where the memorial ceremony would take place. Despite the warmth of the day, most wizards and witches wore full-length dress robes and some—those of the more traditional ilk—also wore pointed caps.

Michael and Eva joined the procession slowly roasting under the sun.

Thankfully, today was one of those few public appearances where Michael was not required to sit front and centre. He was expected to attend, pay his respects, mingle. But the Minister did not have to sit up on the dais, only the first row, which was fortunate because Eva fidgeted the entire first half of the ceremony before falling asleep on his shoulder.

It dragged on.

Headmistress McGonagall, née Professor, oversaw the memorial service, introducing each speaker and generally setting the tone. Michael noticed that although solemn, at times she seemed to imitate Dumbledore’s mischievousness—perhaps feeling that the witches and wizards gathered there today needed the lightness. Kingsley Shacklebolt, former Interim Minister for Magic and current Head of the DMLE, began the service with a moment of silence. He was followed by a several witches and wizards who gave brief eulogies to loved ones killed. Potter spoke, as he did every year, with both Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley at his side. A new addition this year, Neville Longbottom addressed the Hogwarts students in the audience, acknowledging their resilience and encouraging their fortitude. He spoke thoughtfully but ended a little too tritely for Michael’s taste.

“It strikes me that many people stood by a few years ago, too scared to help others around them. I will always remember something Albus Dumbledore said to me in my first year.” Longbottom looked fondly out towards the students gathered at the back of the audience. “It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends.”

Next came Celestina Warbeck with a slow, sad ballad that had a quarter of the audience dabbing their eyes, and then the poet Mirabelle Bloom, before McGonagall took the podium once more.

She adjusted her spectacles on her nose. “Professor Longbottom has already shared some very wise words from Albus Dumbledore, but I would like to share a few more. Albus was a fearless protector and teacher of witches and wizards across Britain, and he was my beloved colleague and friend. Even at the grimmest of times, he always reminded me look and enjoy small pleasures of life. Those who knew him will remember his affection for sweets and his fondness for a good joke. To Albus, no trip to Hogsmeade was too mundane, no well-cast levitation charm was too simple of an accomplishment, no Quidditch match was too trivial to not be celebrated. With his unconquerable spirit in mind, I ask you to join me in singing our school song.”

As the band took up their instruments, McGonagall added with a twinkle in her eye, “Whatever tune you please.”

In keeping with custom, the memorial ended with a terribly pitchy rendition of Hoggy Warty Hogwarts, which Michael quietly joined in, hyperconscious that cameras were everywhere today.

_“Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts, teach us something please, whether we be old and bald, or young with scabby knees …”_

Somewhere behind him several wizards had taken up loudly in a slow funeral march, lagging behind the rest of the crowd.

The singing woke Eva, who promptly needed the toilet that very moment. It took some twenty minutes to locate an available lavatory and by then Eva was desperately hungry. They made their way back toward the crowd and through the throngs to the buffet.

Where Hermione Granger was picking out a pastry.

“Hello, Minister,” she said perfectly cordially, and then more brightly, “and you must be Eva.”

Granger reached out a hand, and shyly Eva crept away from his trouser leg to shake it.

“If you see down there,” Granger pointed towards the cluster of Weasleys further along the buffet. “Right by the woman with the red hair, you see her?”

Eva looked and nodded.

“Well, right where she’s standing there’s a _huge_ plate of biscuits.”

On cue, Eva looked to him with wide eyes. “Daddy, please can I?”

Sparing Granger a miffed glance, Michael smiled and said, “Sure, just come right back, okay.” The moment Eva was out of earshot, he snapped, “Thanks loads for that.”

“She seems sweet,” Hermione Granger said pleasantly and nibbled at her scone. She glanced down and brushed away the crumbs that had landed on her midnight robes.

“Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?”

Despite his impatience, she maintained her cheerful tone, which was never a good sign. “Just a warning, really.”

“Oh?”

“I thought I should let you know since the next time I see you will probably be in court.”

“What?”

“Oh, just ask around the Ministry. I’m sure somebody’s heard something.” Her gaze drifted. “Hmm, that’s Harry over there looking for me. I don’t want to make him worry.”

And she wandered off.

It took Michael a moment to recollect his thoughts. He needed to get to the office. Oh, he _really_ needed to get to the office.

Promising she could bring the sweets along, he pulled Eva from the array of cakes and biscuits that had enchanted her.

“We just need to stop by my office really quick and then we can go home. I have some of your colouring books there.”

They made a swift exit, him disapparating them as soon as they crossed the school’s ward line. He rushed them to his office and began making Floo calls, as Eva sat happily occupied with her colouring.

 _Finally_ , after two dozen calls to Magical Law and another ten to other departments, he had confirmed that, yes, Hermione Granger had gotten a new lawsuit approved to go to hearing.

Sighing, Michael looked at the clock. Nearly a quarter past six. _Dammit!_

Eva had fallen asleep some time before and was none too pleased to be woken, but she perked up quickly at the mention of Grandpa and Grandma. Michael practically ran from the Ministry to the nearest apparition point in his haste.

Gemma greeted them by the front door, shepherding Eva towards the living room and his parents without a word to him.

“I—”

Gemma stopped.

“I – I’m so sorry.”

She turned, glaring. “I asked for _one_ night. One night. You said it wouldn’t be like this. We—”

“Eva!” his mother exclaimed from the other room.

Coldly Gemma turned away from him and said in the same quiet, cutting tone, “Anyway, your parents are here.”

* * *

_Tuesday, 28 September 2004_

_WRRA TO ACCOMMODATE GAY WIZARDS & WITCHES_

_At a press conference Tuesday morning, Minister Clafton proposed a new amendment to the War Repopulation and Rehabilitation Act (WRRA) that would waive the child quota for witches and wizards in same-sex relationships. The amendment, which is expected to pass the Wizengamot easily in the scheduled vote on Friday, would be a massive victory for the gay and lesbian wizarding community._

_The amendment undoubtedly comes from the campaigning of Hermione Granger. Ms. Granger, who first made a name for herself due to her contributions in the Second Wizarding War, has become a notable opponent of the WRRA. Since its passage in June 2002, she has campaigned to amend and repeal the act, successfully passing more than twenty-five amendments to the law. Granger has made gay and lesbian rights a priority in recent months …_

* * *

_Monday, 10 January 2005_

The hour hand on the clock inched closer and closer to eleven. In only five minutes she would arrive, and Michael estimated that in no more than half an hour this whole nightmare would finally end. He had yet to tell Gemma, too superstitious of tempting either fate or the obstinance of Hermione Granger. Gemma would be thrilled, though. Italy was quite nice this time of year. Maybe he could call in a favour with the Portkey Office and book a room for the weekend; she’d been talking for months about taking a holiday once the Granger situation was resolved. Merlin, he hadn’t had a holiday since before the WRRA was announced.

Judging by the knock at the door, Granger was here, early as always.

“Come in,” Michael called, adjusting his collar and finding himself disappointed with the slight waver of his voice.

Granger stepped in, by now well-accustomed to his office.

Her dark hair had been pulled back in a mass of bustling, willful tendrils, and a wintry rosiness tinged her otherwise pale and tired cheeks. A thick, long wool coat and a rainslicker overtop of that, shrouded all but the cuffs of her jeans.

It had taken Michael aback the first time he’d seen Hermione Granger in muggle clothes. On their first meeting she’d worn the standard witch’s robes, but somewhere along the line she’d stopped. That had been months ago, and though he couldn’t have said precisely when, he couldn’t remember seeing her in anything other than trousers and a blouse for over a year now.

“Morning Minister, I hope you’re well.”

Always the same greeting, which, while not precisely insincere, was utterly devoid of sincerity. She never asked about his family—not about Gemma, or Eva, not even about Jonathan, although Michael was certain she must have seen the birth announcement in the _Prophet_ the month before.

“I am, thank you. And yourself?”

“Fine, thank you.” She sat down. “You asked to speak with me?”

“Yes, I did.” Better just to be out with it. “Over the weekend, Ms. Granger, the Wizengamot declined to hear your petitions of appeal. The Council’s decisions will stand. You—”

“ _Excuse_ me! They did _what?_ ” she demanded sharply, her voice rising shrilly in indignation. “On _what_ grounds? This is utterly preposterous. God help you, they had no legitimate reason—”

“The Wizengamot had every legitimate reason to discard your appeal, as I’m entirely sure you know. I would be _astonished_ if you weren’t already aware that this couldn’t go on much longer. I mean, what did you think was going to happen? For Merlin’s sake, you were appealing to the Wizengamot. There isn’t anyone left after that.”

But the slight secretive, furtive look in her eye almost had Michael wondering if she’d been planning on raising the WRRA to an international level.

He swallowed and said, “Ms. Granger, as smart as you are, you must have known for a while now, that this was bound to happen—if not today, then in two months. It would have come to this somehow.”

There had been many discussions and much debate within the Council and Wizengamot before and after the vote about what to do with her. Some of the older, more vindictive members had urged quite strongly that she be sent straight to Azkaban—something about disrespecting the spirit of the law. The majority, though, took a more moderate opinion. She didn’t belong in Azkaban _per se_ , but something had to be done to send the right sort of message. In the end, most of the conversation centred on the logistics of punishment and how best to secure an assurance of her compliance.

The solution they’d come up with was harsher than Michael would’ve wanted. Five hundred twenty-five galleons of fines, seventy-two hours to marry, and probationary status for the next eighteen months. Still, she would be cleared of all charges, provided her cooperation.

“So, that’s it?” Granger asked. “I have three months and then I have to get married or you’ll arrest me?”

Michael didn’t think he’d hesitated more than a second, but some flicker of pity must have crossed his face because her eyes narrowed to daggers and she inhaled sharply, bitterly.

“Oh, so you’re arresting me already?”

“No, no, we’re not arresting you.” At least not yet. “You’ll have to pay several dozen WRRA violation fines with interest, I think they did discard a few of those, however. Anyway, the Council and DMLE will be in touch by owl about all of that.”

Granger nodded once, resignedly.

Michael swallowed. “Besides the fines, you are on probationary status with the DMFS, so you should expect a little extra attention from them going forward. Ah … and also, you’ve been allowed seventy-two hours to comply with articles one through four. You have until eleven Tuesday evening.”

“What?! If – if – if that’s, then – then they must have voted about this on, what, Saturday? Why are you only telling me this now?”

She shook her head to herself, and then her eyes took on a sharp clarity, narrowing at him. “They _must_ have voted Saturday. How is that even possible? I’ve never heard of the Wizengamot calling an unscheduled hearing.”

He hadn’t either. “From what I was told, this was the first time it’s happened in almost two hundred and fifty years.”

Granger seemed startled at that. Perhaps surprised that the Wizengamot would go to such trouble on her account alone. Michael was less surprised. He couldn’t think offhand of another witch or wizard in recent history who had personally been anywhere near as belligerent or effective in antagonizing the judiciary.

“But – but I don’t understand. Who am I supposed to marry? The Wizengamot _has_ to allow whoever he is three months. And it’s not like he even knows about me.”

“It’s my understanding that he was notified of his match several years ago,” Michael said.

She turned white. So abruptly, it chilled every inch of his body. Her lower lip trembled.

“How is that possible? You weren’t – you weren’t allowed to use my data.” Granger shook her head. “This can’t be legal.”

“No, it is. Your data was tested immediately. Before you filed your suit,” Michael clarified.

“But I – I’d just assumed that – that my data wasn’t tested. Since I didn’t hear anything. But why wasn’t this part of the evidence in any of the hearings? How in the world was this covered up?”

“No, your lawsuit prevented the DMFS from notifying you of your results or using them to match you with anyone.”

“We both know that’s not completely true, but even if it were, I still don’t understand how.” Again Granger shook her head. “You just said they weren’t allowed to use any results from those tests to match me with anyone until my case was settled, which it only just was. So how could someone have been matched with me?”

“Legally speaking—”

She snarled.

He continued, “Legally speaking, no one should have been. There was an oversight, and your results was never removed from the system. Your notification letter was delayed until your case was settled, but no one thought to remove your match’s notification letter. His went out automatically on his twenty-third birthday.”

“An _oversight?!_ Do you honestly expect me to believe that this wasn’t deliberate? If it was a mistake, why wasn’t I informed when it happened? Do you realise how serious of a breach of privacy this is?”

Michael sighed. “You’re welcome to raise your complaints with the DMFS or the Wizengamot.”

Granger scowled at him. “I’m not joking. You literally just told me that the Ministry ignored the entire basis of my case two years in advance of it being settled. How is that justice?”

“As I said, you are welcome to raise this with the proper authorities. However, I seriously doubt it will have any effect upon the Wizengamot’s current decision. Nor do I think that the Council or the Wizengamot are likely to agree to hear another appeal.”

“You’re a bastard, you know that? You’ve sat here all these years and never – never once told me—” she broke off, in outraged disdain.

“If it helps, Ms. Granger, I was only told yesterday. The DMFS was handling all of this before.”

She said nothing, only stared stonily at him. He waited, but still she was silent.

“Ah – er, so regarding tomorrow, you’ll have to schedule an appointment to go over all the paperwork and an appointment with the officiator—”

“Who is it?”

“You’ll have to go to the DMFS to schedule the appointments and they’ll have all your information,” he said, hoping beyond hope that he wouldn’t have to—

 _“Who?”_ Hermione Granger demanded again, forceful despite the hitch in her voice.

“The DMFS—”

 _“WHO?!”_ she shouted. “ _Christ!_ You’ve known me for two years. _You_ passed this law! Who are you forcing me to marry?”

Michael swallowed. For that second, he almost wished he had never become Minister.

“Draco Malfoy.”

A small whimper involuntarily escaped her lips.

In a shaky, crestfallen whisper that he would never have believed Hermione Granger could produce, she asked, “And if I refuse?”

As much as Michael knew her cunning disobedience had provoked the temper of the Council and had, ultimately, forced the Wizengamot’s hand in the matter, he couldn’t ignore that pang of pity in his chest. Clearly, the idea of marrying Draco Malfoy terrified her, terrified her more than he’d ever believed anything could terrify her. But there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t allow her special privileges for being one third of the famous Golden Trio, or for pitching a tantrum in the opinion pages, or for whatever slight kindly feelings he might have right then.

He had only the one answer. “You’ll be sent to Azkaban, I’m afraid.”

Michael considered cautioning her just how very close to Azkaban she was—that he had only just managed to talk the Council and Wizengamot out of sentencing her immediately—but decided against it.

She sat, stunned, a moment longer before she gathered her bag, swiping at the tears in her eyes.

Rising, he said politely, “I trust this won’t be the last I see of you, Ms. Granger.”

“No. No, most certainly not.” With one firm nod, Hermione Granger departed.

The door closed after her and Michael was left with a deep feeling of relief and a lingering sense of pity. Letting out a heavy sigh, he loosened his collar, poured himself a glass of Ogden’s Best, and took a swig. Merlin, after two years of this hell, he needed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed—or didn't—any and all reviews are very much welcome and appreciated. I really love hearing your feedback, constructive criticism, or rambling thoughts and reactions. Thanks so much for reading!  
> P.S. Chapter Three: The Wizengamot’s Verdict will be from Harry’s perspective with just a touch of Ron and Ginny. Sorry, to those who are impatient for Hermione/Draco, but I think it’s the right choice narrative-wise, and I’m super excited to share it with you all. However, chapter four will get down to the nitty-gritty Hermione and Draco of it all.  
> P.P.S. I am looking for an alpha/beta-reader and britpick-er. If anyone is interested, please let me know.


	3. The Wizengamot's Verdict

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I am merely exploring the wonderful world J. K. Rowling has created.  
> This chapter has been a real pain (and very fun) to write, but I’m so pleased with where it’s gotten to. I hope you all enjoy Harry and Ginny and Ron as much as I do. Next chapter is Draco!  
> Thank you all for your lovely reviews!  
> In light of everything happening these days, I hope you are healthy and well.  
> Now, please enjoy!  
> -AFOR (May 10, 2020)

_Monday, 10 January 2005_

Cold, London wind buffeted Harry inside and slammed the door after him, sending the shopkeeper’s bell ringing furiously above his head. He wiped his shoes on the doormat and attempted to shake the rain from his robes.

At the chiming, Verity’s head shot up from behind the shop counter, little more than blonde hair and thick brows visible over the menagerie of joke wands and illness-inducing sweets on display.

“Hullo, Verity.”

“Hi,” she said. “Ron should be in the back room.”

“Thanks.”

Business in January was always slow, but the shop was empty this morning allowing Harry an uninterrupted view of the peculiar décor of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. Even for Harry, who spent several lunches a week here, the sight never became any less aggressively overwhelming. Cages of pink and purple pygmy puffs and Puking Pastilles lined the aisle as he made his way further into the shop. At the rear, he pulled back the velvet plum-coloured curtain.

A sweet pinkish-purple haze rose from a dozen hissing, steaming, and bubbling cauldrons and filled the room. Between the cauldrons, half-built machines and pages and pages of minuscule notes covered the worktables.

Harry let the curtain swing closed behind him. He stepped into the room and ducked as a quill darted across through the air, only barely missing his eye. Reaching a chart at the opposite end of the room, the quill scribbled several figures onto the page, then whizzed toward the back corner of the workroom where Ron and George, both clad in violent magenta robes, were bent over a ledger of some sort.

“Ron, be a dear, will you?” Harry called in his most Molly-like voice.

The two men turned.

“Oi! What do you want?”

“Right. It’s not like I’m bringing you lunch.”

“Yeah, shut it, mate.” George cuffed Ron on the shoulder. “That’s Mum’s cooking.”

“You dropped off James then?” Ron asked, as he crossed to take the tin from Harry and inspect its contents. “Pot pie. Excellent.”

“Yeah, Gin’s off at practice and I’m in the office all afternoon.”

“Can you not stay then?”

“No, got a thing for a case,” Harry frowned. “Did you need something?”

“Nah, not really.” Ron shrugged.

Harry raised his brows.

“It’s only,” Ron’s ears were turning red, “I finally heard back from Emma about lunch.”

“That’s excellent, mate!”

“Yeah,” Ron broke into a bashful grin. “Just nervous, you know. She seems decent, right? And I’m waiting to see what happens. It’s still a year, and if she goes ahead and marries some other bloke I’m right back to the start with a new witch. Dunno what I’ll do then.”

Ron’s assigned spouse—in the Ministry’s clinical terms—had been several years below them and would not turn twenty-three for another year. Since he’d gotten his match last March, Ron had reached out to her several times by owl: first to let her know he was her match, and then to try to get to know her. They’d met briefly for coffee once, but apparently she had not seemed interested in much more than that. Still, Ron said she was nice, and on the whole she didn’t seem all too bad.

Since Ron and Hermione mutually split six years ago, Ron had dated several witches, but none of them very seriously. He’d really liked all of them, Harry thought. Unfortunately, between Ron’s own grieving and the witches’ preconceptions about Ron, none of the relationships had lasted long.

“Did she say when?” Harry asked.

“Sunday, I think, or middle next week. I think she has some work deadline this weekend.”

“Happy for you, mate,” Harry said. “Let me know how it goes.”

“Course!” Ron grinned.

* * *

“… most unfortunate really … a pity … the poor girl—”

Harry caught snatches of the conversation before the witch paused, spotting him over her colleague’s shoulder.

“Oh, Mr. Potter, how are you?” she called, waving at him to come over.

For the life of him, Harry couldn’t remember ever having laid eyes on the woman before, but nevertheless he walked to join the pair.

“I was just telling Mr. Spannar about the nasty affair over the weekend. Had to be done though, after all, the law is the law. I do hope Ms. Granger doesn’t hold it against me, just doing my job.” She shrugged as if to relieve herself of blame. “If you see her, do let her know I’m sorry. I had no idea who they would pair her with, such a shame really! If I had known – well, who’s to say? Maybe it’s for the best after all.”

“Sorry, what?” Harry asked, entirely lost.

“Oh, hadn’t you heard?” The witch looked taken aback and then distinctly uncomfortable as a guilty blush rose in her cheeks. “We – er, well the Wizengamot denied Ms. Granger’s appeal.”

Harry didn’t bother excusing himself.

Worry for Hermione coursed through him, but anger surged hotter. How could they? It was so unfair. And she would have to get married. Who was it? The witch had seemed to feel badly about that, which couldn’t mean anything good.

For all the hours Harry had spent with Hermione—helping her research, speaking at rallies, editing her letters—she had never said much to him about if she didn’t overturn the law. And he hadn’t gotten the sense from Ginny or Ron that she’d ever discussed it with them either. Always, the question of “what if?” had seemed too much for Hermione to handle. It would crush her.

Harry bolted down the hallway and up the stairs and through corridor after corridor and up flight after flight, not even bothering with the lifts, until he reached the Minister’s office.

“Don’t—” the Minister’s secretary screeched.

Harry flung open the door anyway.

“Does Hermione know?”

Clafton’s eyebrows spiked as Harry entered, but he calmly said, “Good day, Mr. Potter.”

“Does Hermione know?” Harry pressed.

“About?”

“You fucking know what I mean.”

Harry only vaguely noticed that Clafton magicked the door closed.

Clafton sighed. “I met with Ms. Granger this morning. So, yes, she has been made aware of the Wizengamot’s decision.”

“I thought the hearing wasn’t supposed to be for another week.”

“Er, yes. Well, the Wizengamot decided to vote early.”

“Why?”

“Look, Mr. Potter, you’d have to speak to the Wizengamot. I’m not invol—”

“Did anyone tell her this was happening?”

“No, I don’t believe the Wizengamot saw fit to.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Again, Mr. Potter, I’d recommend consulting the Wizengamot Rules and Procedures or speaking with one of the members.”

“Fuck the Wizengamot!”

“Mr. Potter, please.”

Harry paused and took several breaths, then asked, “You knew about this?”

Clafton nodded.

Harry’s jaw clenched. “Then why didn’t you tell her?”

Placidly Clafton responded, “The Wizengamot made their decision and it’s hardly my place—”

“Like hell it’s not! You could have had the basic decency to let her know.”

“While Ms. Granger may be an admirable witch, it’s not my responsibility to do her any favours.”

What utter horse shite. Harry couldn’t imagine knowingly letting anyone’s hearing happen without them. Except perhaps Umbridge. But even the Death Eaters and collaborators they were still tracking down deserved to be at their own hearings. Several of the low-level supporters Harry had arrested had presented compelling information at their hearings about the extenuating circumstances surrounding their involvement with the Death Eaters or the Thicknesse administration. One woman’s daughter had been threatened and repeatedly harassed. Without a hearing, she would likely be in Azkaban now and the aurors wouldn’t have learned about the – well, _essentially mobsters_ Runcorn had employed.

“Doesn’t it bother you that she was cheated out of a fair hearing?” Harry asked. “Don’t you care—”

“No. It does not bother me. I work very hard to ensure the wellbeing of all of wizarding Britain, and Ms. Granger is not my utmost concern. How she has managed to avoid arrest thus far, quite frankly, _still_ baffles me. I would think you might be _glad_ to hear that the court decided to reject the order for Ms. Granger’s arrest.”

“What?”

“I just would’ve thought that you’d be—”

“No. Not that.” How was this possible? “Hermione had an order for her arrest?” Harry asked.

Clafton nodded. “Only ever internally circulated. The _Prophet_ has no idea and never will—you’re welcome—but she has over five hundred galleons in unpaid fines, which is an imprisonable offence.”

“Hermione had—” Harry had to pause to steady himself. He slowly took the seat across from Clafton. “I had no idea.”

Clafton frowned. “To be honest, I’m not strictly supposed to be telling you any of this, but – well, between you and me, I really would prefer not to see Ms. Granger in Azkaban.”

“How much trouble is Hermione in?”

“I’d say she might be able to upset Marriage and Family or the Wizengamot one more time, maybe two—if she’s lucky—before they arrest her.”

“Can’t you _do_ something?”

“She’s made herself the enemy of some of the most powerful witches and wizards in the county. There isn’t much anyone can do to change that. It’s personal now.”

“But – but …”

Harry was at a loss for words. So utterly outraged at the entire Ministry.

Finally, he settled on, “Who the fuck in the Wizengamot can send somebody to Azkaban because they don’t _like_ her?” ~~~~

Clafton fixed him with an expressionless stare and said firmly, “Ms. Granger should count herself very lucky to have as loyal a friend as you, Mr. Potter. However, I expect a level of professionalism from my employees so, in the future, leave the personal matters outside the office. Now, if you would kindly see yourself out.”

Harry purposefully neglected to shut the door behind him.

* * *

Mid-dive, Ginny hurtled downwards in a tight spiral, the winds whirling and whipping at her, her robes flapping loudly in the current. Adrenalin coursing through her veins, she felt as though the air was swallowing her. Ginny clutched the quaffle tightly to her chest and dodged a bludger.

The hoop was approaching fast, eighty feet away – no, seventy. Now only fifty to go.

She eyed Rath, hovering in the centre of the posts.

And then she saw it.

Ginny yanked her broom upwards, trying to slow her momentum, but she was diving too fast for the sudden stop—she somersaulted twice before managing to right herself.

A silvery stag bounded towards her in a loping canter, leaving a shimmering trail of mist behind as it gracefully darted skywards. Around the pitch, the Harpies hovered, frozen in mid-flight, their eyes glued to the patronus.

 _“Gin,”_ Harry’s voice came then, echoing, out of the ethereal beast.

Ginny’s broom dropped a few feet. Her throat constricted, her heart beat frantically, and clammy sweat slicked her skin. Fear swelled in her chest, paralyzing her.

_“I’m picking up James from your mum’s now. And then I’m going to Hermione’s.”_

Were they alright? Images rushed across Ginny’s vision. James cried desperately, stilling as colour drained from his chubby cheeks. A curse caught Harry by the leg, and he crumpled. Hermione lay stiff inside a coffin, covered in soil. George’s headstone beside Fred. And Mum? Had something happened to the Burrow? Ginny couldn’t see. The pitch, a hundred feet below her, wobbled. Somehow James’s choked wheeze was louder than the screaming she heard ringing in her ears.

 _“The Wizengamot denied all of her appeals and she has until tomorrow to get married or else they’re chucking her in Azkaban. I’m not sure if she’s—”_ Harry paused, his voice laced with worry.

The absolute panic subsided almost as quickly as it had come, but Ginny could still hear the thud of rushing blood in her veins.

She heard him clear his throat. _“Anyway, tell Gwenog I’m sorry for interrupting your practice. I love you, see you soon.”_

As the stag disintegrated and drifted away with the breeze, Ginny turned to face the rest of her team.

“Merlin’s pants, Ginny, just go,” Gwenog snapped. “You’ll be useless the rest of practice anyway.”

* * *

The kid—Mitchell, his mum had called him—was Ron’s favourite type of customer. With his mum safely occupied by the new range of Valentine’s Patented Daydreams, Mitchell had set about exploring the sweets section. Starting with the tamer Sugar Quills and Acid Pops, he quickly moved past the Canary Creams onto Nosebleed Nougats and Puking Pastilles. January was always slow and today especially, so Ron appreciated such an enthusiastic customer.

Having watched the kid for five minutes now, Ron edged closer to see what he was looking over.

“That one’s got Hogwarts specialties.”

Mitchell looked confused, and it took Ron a second to remember that the kid was a few years too young to be in Hogwarts, or else he wouldn’t be home mid-January.

“Some of the professors at Hogwarts have heard of Puking Pastilles before, so they tend to check kids’ sick to see if its real. Now the Original line,” Ron picked up a box to show the kid, “actually do make you vomit. So, that’s not a problem. But you can wind up puking for too long or feeling sick for a few hours. So, we also have the I Can’t Believe It’s Not Bile line, which doesn’t actually make you sick. Just suck on it and it turns into a lot of sick. We’ve got different sizes: Newt if you just need a little, Rat’s got a bit more, and Cat which really takes care of about anything you could ever need to get out of. But since it isn’t actually your own sick, professors sometimes notice that it doesn’t match with dinner, you know? So, we make different flavours: if you had roast for dinner last night take a Beef-Eater pastille, if you had treacle then Treacle Treats should cover it. And that’s,” Ron nodded to the box in Mitchell’s hand, “our newest flavour assortment. It’s got twelve classic Hogwarts dishes.”

Mitchell’s eyes were wide, impressed.

Ron leaned closer to whisper, “We even specially consulted with the Hogwarts house elves to make sure we got the recipes just right. Those have a hundred percent money-back guarantee if a professor can tell it’s not real.”

Neville had really pulled through on that one, promising to confirm—under promise that nothing would _ever_ be said to McGonagall—any suspected uses by students. As of yet, there’d been no close calls.

They’d released the Hogwarts selection in time for Christmas and had sold out in a matter of weeks. And now that school had started up again, sales were going brilliantly with mail orders to Hogsmeade keeping their owls busy. Already, they’d begun talks with Kreacher to develop a second assortment and had been soon reminded that the elf drove a hard bargain.

Just then, Harry’s silver stag cantered in through the front window.

“ _No one’s hurt, so you know. Forgot to say that first to Gin, may have scared her half to death. But they denied Hermione’s appeal. I don’t know what’s gonna happen. Come to her’s when you can.”_

Mitchell stared at the spot where the stag had disappeared, eyes wide with shock. _Shite_.

* * *

“James, you remember who we’re visiting today?” Harry asked, fishing around for his keys with his one hand that wasn’t holding James to his hip.

James gurgled.

“We’re going to see your Aunt Hermione.”

“Minee?” James echoed curiously.

“That’s right, but Aunt Hermione is feeling sad today, James. Okay? So, we need to help her feel better.”

He unlocked the door to apartment 28B and entered her flat. “Hermione? Hermione, are you there?”

No answer came.

Harry closed the door and hoisted James a little higher. “Cause someone special is here. And he’s really excited to see his Aunt Hemione.”

“Minee!”

He made his way through Hermione’s flat. Past her paper-filled living room to her barren, neatly organised kitchen where Hermione lay, curled into a ball on the floor.

“Hermione?”

She was taking rapid breaths—hyperventilating, he realised—and he dropped to her side.

“Hermione, breathe. Breathe.”

Holding James firmly with his left arm, his right hand rubbed her back.

“Take deep breaths, okay? Deep breath in … and out … that’s right. Breathe in … and out, okay? Again. Deep breath in …”

Slowly, Hermione’s breathing evened, and Harry moved so he could hold James with both hands.

“I’m a horrible person, Harry,” Hermione said.

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

“But I am.”

“Hermione?” he asked and waited.

James squirmed, and Harry set him down where he settled. The silence stretched longer, and Harry wrapped his right arm back around Hermione’s shoulders.

“I – I just went to make, er – to make tea. But then – I saw,” she let out a sob and buried her face in her hands. “I saw their mugs in the cupboard and I realised that they won’t see me get married. They don’t even know they have a daughter who they’re _supposed_ to see get married. And I did that to them, it’s my fault that it’s like this.”

Harry just kept rubbing circles into her shoulder blades.

“But it’s just _so awful!_ I – I’m almost – there was,” Hermione swallowed. “There was a moment I was – where I felt sort of glad that they wouldn’t be there.”

Hermione looked sideways at him from between her fingers. “Harry, how could I ever think something so awful? What type of person am I that I’m glad my parents don’t remember me?”

He stared at her, trying to figure out what she needed to hear. “You think that I haven’t thought the same thing a hundred different times? Hermione, of course, I’m glad they never had to see me in the hospital wing Merlin-knows-how-many times and that they didn’t see Sirius or Remus or anyone else die and they weren’t there when Voldemort was in my head. But that doesn’t mean I love them any less or that I don’t want them alive again more than anything in the world.”

Hermione sniffled and nodded.

Harry shifted again so they sat half-facing each other. They watched James giggle and happily gnaw on his own toes.

“Sometimes – sometimes I think I would kill to get them back for one day,” she said.

“Me too.”

“But you wouldn’t really. You’ve always known so clearly what’s right and wrong. I –” she cleared away the hoarseness, “I think – I think I could. If it would work, I think I would.”

“Hermione—”

“No, it’s fine.” She shrugged. “I know it’s not possible.”

“You wouldn’t,” he said. “You wouldn’t actually.”

She said nothing, just smiled tightly.

A minute of quiet passed.

It was strange to think about Hermione as ruthless. Though Harry knew she had a vindictive streak, he’d so far been lucky to avoid the brunt of it. The curse she’d placed on Marietta, keeping Rita Skeeter in a jar, even abandoning Umbridge to the centaurs—they’d never struck him as undeserved. And, given Hermione’s avid championing of neglected causes, he’d always trusted her judgment of what went too far, what was too cruel. The only times he’d honestly questioned her judgment had always been something to do with Ron, but then, both of them had been such idiots about each other.

Still, sometimes Harry didn’t give her enough credit or, rather, gave her too much. Sixth year and then in the tent, she’d read loads on the Dark Arts—far more than he ever had—and it had changed how she fought. As disgusted as she was by the sadism in the Dark Arts, she’d become more pragmatic. Efficiency was a principle of hers, and she wasn’t going to let the Death Eaters win just because of her own squeamishness. When Harry had seen her in battle at Hogwarts she’d been casting spells he’d never heard of but he could see how Death Eaters fell. Hermione would agree with him that she wasn’t the strongest duellist, however she compensated in sheer vocabulary.

Even so, Harry was almost certain he’d cast much worse than she ever had. As far he knew she’d never touched an Unforgivable.

“I’ve used two Unforgivables,” he said, “did you ever think that my whole _Expelliarmus_ -I-won’t-use- _Avada_ thing was just cause I didn’t want a complete set?”

Hermione laughed. “No, because we both know you’re too good for that.”

They faded into silence again, and Harry thought about what she’d said. It wasn’t true. He was as bad as the next person—maybe not as the next Death Eater, but what Sirius has said to him fifth year had stuck with him. Everybody had light and dark in them. And Hermione was brighter than most anyone he knew.

“You know that they love you, right? They’d be so proud of everything you’ve done,” he told her.

Hermione blinked away a few tears. “I do want them there,” she said in a small voice. “I want them at my wedding.”

“I know.”

She only barely nodded, swallowing thickly.

Not for the first time, the immensity of everything Hermione had sacrificed—sacrificed for him—stole the breath from Harry’s lungs.

Twenty years as an orphan had not protected him from the sudden ache he’d felt as he married Ginny. All through the ceremony and reception he hadn’t been able stop scanning the room for his mum and dad’s faces, unable to shake the thought that somehow, maybe, they’d have come back. That for this, there would be a way.

Hermione had never said, but Harry suspected that she had always known she might not be able to return her parent’s memories.

“Hermione, I’m just – I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be daft, it’s not your fault.” Her eyes wandered around the kitchen. After half a minute she spoke, “I’m guessing you came over cause you heard.”

He frowned. “Yeah.”

“Er,” she started shakily. “Erm … er, do – do – how did you, er—”

“There was this witch from the Wizengamot who wanted me to apologize to you, I think. I’m not really sure – I went to see Clafton, then.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Harry, you didn’t? What’d he say?”

Now was not the time to convince her to let him pay the fines for her.

Harry shrugged. “That they moved the hearing up and are making you get married.”

“Oh, alright,” she said and absently nodded to herself. “So, the _Prophet_ hasn’t said anything. You just heard about it from Clafton.”

“Yeah.”

Harry didn’t know what more to say. It seemed the wrong time to ask what was going on. Why she hadn’t told them about the fines. If she’d even known. Much less who she was marrying. Or the depth of political mess she’d gotten herself into.

After a few minutes, James crawled over to her, and she scooped him up into her lap. Once in her hold, his tiny fists happily latched onto her hair and he began to gnaw, slobber, on her fingers. Hermione tilted her head to carefully watch him teethe and play with her hair.

Eventually, Harry stood and put the kettle on the stove. He checked the front door was unlocked for Ginny and Ron, then came back to the kitchen to fix them each a cup of tea. She had cream, but the inside of her fridge looked like she was living on austerity rations: half a loaf of bread, lettuce, mustard, leftover rice, milk, the cream, and nothing else. Sighing, he went to hunt through her catch-all drawer for some sort of local take out menu, hopefully she still had one from that nearby Thai place.

When the kettle started to whistle, Harry poured them each a cup, adding a single sugar cube for her and for himself three cubes with a generous splash of cream. He set the cups on the floor and sat next to her.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Mmm?”

“Hermione.”

“What? Oh. Thank you for the tea.”

“How are you feeling?” Harry asked again.

Hermione sighed. “I don’t know. Sad, I guess. To be honest, I’m not even that angry. I just – well, I don’t quite know how I feel, actually. It doesn’t feel real, really. Finally, it’s over and I’ve failed and the Ministry’s won.”

“You can’t honestly think—”

“No, Harry. Listen. I spent two and a half years of my life trying to repeal this law and I didn’t change a thing.”

“All the amendments you got passed. Those are worth a lot.”

“Sure. But it still doesn’t matter. It didn’t change anything for me. I still have to get married.”

Harry took another sip. “Do you—”

Just then he heard the slow whine from Hermione’s front door, and he broke off. “That’ll be Ginny or Ron.”

Ginny barrelled into the kitchen a moment later, hair still wet from the pitch showers.

She was on Hermione in an instant, with a kiss for James who cooed as soon as his mum entered.

“Hermione, Merlin’s balls, I’m so sorry! What the fuck are they thinking?”

When Ron arrived ten minutes later, Ginny was still hovering over Hermione. Ron’s interruption had the unfortunate effect of distracting Ginny from Hermione enough that she remembered she needed to set into Harry about the heart attack he’d almost given her with his terrifying patronus.

Over the next hour they unearthed from Hermione the details of what had happened. She’d already been to see the DMFS. They had all the documentation and records that they would need from her to complete the marriage licence. She had an appointment tomorrow morning at eight to fill out the licence and marriage contract and other paperwork. Then tomorrow evening the bonding ceremony was scheduled for eight, to accommodate for an _actual_ wedding the officiator was presiding over. It was just three hours shy of the Wizengamot’s deadline. Harry said nothing but it seemed to him she was cutting it rather close.

The fines were not mentioned.

“So, who is it?” Ron asked, to the point.

Ginny watched Hermione intently, and Harry tried not to add to the scrutiny as Hermione squirmed.

Pinching her eyes closed, Hermione said quickly, “It’s Malfoy.”

It was worse than if they had all erupted. No one said anything. Ron stared at her in horror, Ginny—not one for crying—began to tear up, and Harry couldn’t quite wipe the pity off his face fast enough. Hermione caught his eye and looked away just as fast; he knew she’d seen it and he knew it was the last thing she wanted.

“Well, that’s – that’s,” Ron stuttered. “That sucks, Mione. Shite.”

“Thanks, Ron.”

* * *

It was another matter when Harry and Ron left to pick up the carry out from the Chinese restaurant a few blocks over. Five minutes into the walk, Ron finally broke the silence.

“Harry?” Ron croaked. “Harry, how can they make her marry Malfoy?”

“No fucking clue.”

“The Ferret? The _Ferret_ , Harry! The fucker watched Bellatrix _torture_ her.”

“I know, mate. I know.”

“Those bastards, I mean – what if he takes advantage of her?”

Harry didn’t have an answer for that. She’d best Malfoy in any duel, but that still left so much else.

* * *

Harry quite liked Audrey Weasley. He especially liked that she was not nearly as dull as her husband could be. Granted, Percy had come a long way in the years since the war, but he could still rattle on about cauldron bottoms for quite a while to those who couldn’t be more uninterested in the differences between pewter and brass.

Harry ducked quickly out of the living room when he heard the knock on the door.

Audrey stood in the hallway tightly bundled in gloves, hat, scarf, and muggle coat. Only her pink-tinged cheeks and faintly auburn hair peeked out.

“I’ve got ice cream, as requested.” Audrey held up the grocery bag with several tubs in it. “Now what’s going on?”

“The short version’s that Hermione’s got to get married tomorrow,” Harry explained lowly. “To Malfoy.”

“Fuck. Is she?” Audrey half asked.

“She’s drinking. And being as stubborn as she gets.”

Hermione had already started in on her wine when he and Ron had returned with the takeaway, and she’d moved over to hard liquor by the end of dinner. Hermione did not normally drink. Harry had never seen Hermione rightly drunk, though Ron said he had once, in a similar state of distress over her parents. Tonight, it was too much for Ron to watch her drink away her sorrows, and he had gone home. But Harry and Ginny had stayed, putting James down in Hermione’s room. Clearly Hermione should not be left alone.

“In the living room?” Audrey asked.

“Yeah.”

“Right then, I’ll handle her. You put these away.” Handing Harry the ice cream, she strode off towards the living room.

Obediently, Harry deposited the tubs in the freezer then returned to the living room.

Hermione was still clutching onto her glass, but Audrey had just whipped out her wand.

_“Evanesco!”_

The whisky vanished.

“Audrey! For God’s sake, just let me have my drink!”

“You can get pissed _after_ we figure this shit out.”

“Figure what out? _What?!_ There is nothing I can do.”

“That’s the attitude,” deadpanned Audrey.

“Fuck off!”

“Hermione, listen to me. How about we actually talk about this. I’m sure there’s something we can do. You’re a grown witch and if you want things to get better you have to do it yourself.”

“What haven’t I already done? You know they say the definition of insanity is repeating the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”

“Oh yeah? So, persistence has never gotten you anywhere, then? We _know_ what you can do when you put your bloody _huge_ brain to it, you know? And helplessness isn’t a good look on you. Please, let’s talk it over and see if there’s something.”

“I’m telling you, it’s over. I want to drink.”

“Go over it again,” Audrey encouraged. “What do you want? What’s—”

“My drink.”

“—What’s realistic? What would help? What’s the best-case scenario? What’s the situation we’re working with?”

“Oh, let’s see. I’m a failure and I’ve got to marry fucking Draco Malfoy tomorrow. And if _that’s_ not bad enough, I’ll spend the next six months fending off bloody owls from the stupid witches who believe the lies Rita Skeeter will inevitably write about me for the next four. And by then my reputation will be ruined, no one will hire me, and I’ll die destitute. That is, if Malfoy hasn’t already killed me.”

“Are you really worried he’ll hurt you?” asked Audrey seriously.

Hermione seemed to crack. Remorse, poured in across her face, wiping away the bitter sneer. “No. No, I shouldn’t have said that. He – Harry testified for him, of course I don’t think he’d do anything.”

While Harry agreed with Hermione, Ginny’s expression across the room was far more guarded.

“Alright. So, the Malfoy bit is done and closed,” Audrey launched ahead, practically. “Nothing to do about that. What about Skeeter, though? We can’t let her make the Great Hermione Granger unemployable.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “There’s nothing to do. The Ministry hates me and wouldn’t believe a word I said, which every tabloid in England knows. I have no leverage over the Ministry, no leverage over Rita or the _Prophet_ , and it’s—” Hermione stopped abruptly, overcome by some thought.

A smile crept at Audrey’s mouth as she watched Hermione think.

Bless Ginny a million times over for suggesting that they call Audrey. In a way that neither he nor Ginny fully did, Audrey _got_ how Hermione thought—the two women were wired for the same practical realism.

Slowly, Hermione repeated herself. “It’s not as though anything has changed, except … Oh, why didn’t I think of it before?”

“What?” Harry asked.

Hermione’s eyes were alight when she turned to him. “Oh, Harry, don’t you see? Something _has_ changed.”

He blinked blankly at her.

She went on impatiently. “ _Malfoy_ , Harry! Malfoy! He knows she’s an animagus and he’s rich and pureblood. If _he_ threatened to expose her to the Ministry—”

“Maybe, but how are you going to get him—”

“It doesn’t matter. Rita only needs to _think_ it’s Malfoy.”

“I mean, I don’t know if we really should,” Harry said. “It’s blackmail and impersonation, both of which are crimes. I don’t think it’s a good – imagine if the Ministry gets word—”

“Polyjuice second year,” Ginny interrupted impatiently at near the same time as Audrey said, “You three broke into Gringotts!”

“Honestly, Harry,” said Hermione, “I blackmailed Rita fourth year, we both blackmailed her fifth, and you blackmailed Mundungus sixth year and Slughorn too, if you’re really being honest about it. And I’ve been thinking a lot recently about how unethical our use of the invisibility cloak really was—I mean, not given the circumstances, but there were certainly times when we shouldn’t have been using it to sneak around the way we did.”

Ginny smirked dangerously at Harry from out of Hermione’s eyesight, waggling her eyebrows, which brought back more than a few vivid memories involving the cloak.

“Alright, I get it.” He sighed. “But I still don’t think it’s a good idea _for you_. From what Clafton said, the Ministry’s looking for a reason to arrest you. You don’t need to help them.”

“I won’t.” Hermione rolled her eyes. “They’ll never know.”

“How—”

She cut him off. “Half the time they have their heads up their own arses. The number of things that the Ministry doesn’t know that it’s supposed to, could fill half the Bodleian.”

“Please be careful.”

“I’m not about to send Rita a note saying ‘I, Hermione Jean Granger, am attempting to blackmail you with sensitive information that I definitely learned illegally.’”

“Fine. But can I just ask why you aren’t just asking him to send it himself?” Harry asked.

All eyes swivelled to him.

“ _Really_ , Harry? Can you _imagine_ what he’d say?” scoffed Hermione.

Harry could, and rather thought that Malfoy might actually quite enjoy using his wealth and status to intimidate Rita Skeeter. Or, at the very least, might be peeved to learn later that his wealth and status _had_ been used to intimidate Rita Skeeter without his knowledge, but Harry said nothing more.

Hermione had found her feet and her mind was whirling. She’d snatched up some scrap of paper and was scribbling furiously. For half an hour her pen moved, and fresh paper soared across the room as a pile or crumpled drafts collected beside her. As she worked, Audrey took the liberty of beginning the mountainous task of filing the years of legal documents that had overtaken the room’s flat surfaces.

Ginny and Harry headed to the kitchen to do the washing up.

“Do you think she realises that she’s going to have to move?” whispered Ginny.

Harry shook his head.

Ginny continued, “I mean, there’s no way she’d win against Malfoy, right? He’s filthy rich and she has how much in Gringotts? Do you even know?”

“Not the faintest.”

Ginny frowned.

“What?” Harry asked. “What is it?”

“I found a letter, just when I was cleaning up earlier,” Ginny said. “She’s two months late on her rent. Is she still sending money to Australia? I know you argued about it, but ….”

Harry shook his head. “She wouldn’t let me send them anything and she wouldn’t take anything either. We haven’t talked about it since. I haven’t the faintest what’s happening. It’s just now – well, part of the decision on her case was that she has to settle something like five hundred galleons in fines and I just don’t know how she’s going to—”

Ginny had looked at him sharply. “Did you know that she had those fines?”

“No.”

Ginny breathed out. “She’s got to, right? She’s got to let us pay for it.”

“I don’t know, she’s got a thing about money.”

Ginny nodded and went back to the washing up. “Do you think she’d let Malfoy?”

“What? Pay?”

“Yeah.”

“She’d never say anything about it to him.”

“But if he offered, maybe then?”

Harry looked at Ginny. “You mean that we tell him?”

“Yeah.” Ginny met his gaze straight on.

“Gin, she’d be furious.”

“But she wouldn’t be in Azkaban.”

“Harry, I’m going to need to borrow your owl,” called Hermione from across the flat. “But – _fuck!_ Does anyone know what Malfoy’s owl looks like?”

Harry assumed Audrey must’ve intervened and had gotten the owl problem sorted, as no further requests came.

He turned back to Ginny. “Are you seriously suggesting we go behind Hermione’s back and convince Draco The Ferret Malfoy to pay her debts?”

Ginny didn’t say anything, so Harry went on. “If he offered, she’d know straight away we’d told him, and she’d just refuse. If any of us pay for her, she’ll find out eventually and be even more pissed that we kept it from her.”

Ginny frowned doubtfully.

“What?” asked Harry. “You disagree?”

“We both know that’d she’d forgive you.”

“Seriously?!”

 _“Shh!_ ” Ginny hissed, glaring.

“So, I go to the Ministry and pay them, and – what? _Hope_ she forgives me?”

“Has Hermione ever been able to stay angry at you?” Ginny asked, then bowled ahead when he opened his mouth, “Not at Ron or the both of you, but at _you?_ ”

Harry wracked his brain. Sure, there was their argument over the Firebolt third year but, as Ginny said, Hermione had been upset at him _and_ Ron. Her anger had been driven by worry and had not been helped by Ron’s stubbornness at the time about both the Firebolt and Crookshanks. Even fifth year when Harry had been a right arse, Hermione hadn’t held it against him, being unreasonably understanding; and sixth year, she’d put up with Snape’s potion book and his obsession with Malfoy. Though she had nagged and argued with him, she’d not truly gotten angry with him, always staying supportive.

Harry felt himself caving.

“The thing is, that I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“After everything you and Hermione have been through, do you really think _this_ is what would end it?” asked Ginny.

Harry considered it. “I suppose not.”

* * *

Hermione settled back into her couch with a fresh glass of wine. Somewhere above London Audrey’s owl took to the sky with a small envelope tied around her ankle.

_Rita,_

_I hoped that you could make sure that, despite whatever rumours you hear from the swarms, nothing in the Prophet causes any unnecessary buzz. Just a favour for an old friend. Again, congratulations on your transformative_ _success!_

_D.L.M._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed—or didn't—any and all reviews are very much welcome and appreciated. I really love hearing your feedback, constructive criticism, or rambling thoughts and reactions. Thanks so much for reading!  
> P.S. Chapter Four: The Contract will be up next weekend. Looking forward to some Draco!  
> P.P.S. I am looking for an alpha/beta-reader. If anyone is interested, please let me know.


	4. The Contract

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I am merely exploring the wonderful world J. K. Rowling has created.  
> I am so excited for you to read this chapter. It’s been such an interesting challenge to write Draco, and I had the best time writing Miss Neilson! Hopefully, she brings you as much joy as she did me.  
> In light of everything happening these days, I hope you are healthy and well.  
> Thank you to everyone who contributed lovely reviews! And many, many thanks to those who have given constructive feedback!  
> And very special thanks to FloraMacDonald for brit-picking! (With her suggestions, I’ve gone back and made minor changes to the first three chapters.)  
> -AFOR (May 16, 2020)

_Monday, 17 August 1998_

She wrung her handkerchief into a coiled knot with already-white fingers, wrapping it around her left ring finger just above the gold band.

“Mother.”

She startled as if Draco had shouted, though he’d only whispered.

Every inch of her was tensed muscle—a brittle statue Draco feared might fracture at any instant. He felt her slowly exhale. Her fingers released their prey and smoothed out the fabric carefully.

“Mother, please don’t worr—”

Her strained smile silenced him.

It was no use pretending. He’d be convicted, no doubt. He could only pray to Merlin for a light sentence; he could survive Azkaban for a year, maybe two. Arguably Aunt Bella had already been driven half-mad by torture and the Dark Arts even before she had spent fourteen years imprisoned with dementors. The dementors had taken their toll on Father, but Draco was younger—he’d be able to hold up better. Should be able to.

Something brushed his hand.

In an instant, Mother had threaded her fingers with his. “Remember to sit straight.”

A camera flashed.

Draco wondered how they must look to the rest of the world: the two remaining Malfoys clinging together for dear life. Their photograph—as stiff as the muggles’—would certainly make the front page of tomorrow’s _Prophet_. How many witches and wizards would smile at their humiliation, gratified that the great pureblood family had finally been brought to its knees?

Mother squeezed his hand.

Potter had stood up from the bench where he’d been sitting, between Granger and Weasley, and made his way to the raised lectern at the centre of the courtroom.

In his, his mother’s fingers were cold and thin. Draco squeezed back.

“Would the witness please state their name?”

“Erm, I’m Harry Potter. I’m here to ask the Wizengamot to pardon Draco Malfoy.”

_What?_

Draco opened his eyes, not even fully aware that he had closed them. His solicitor had said nothing about Potter giving testimony, so when Potter had stood up Draco had not bothered to hope that it would be anything in his favour. Sure, Potter had testified for his mother, but she’d saved his life—lied outright to the Dark Lord—and had never taken the Mark.

Looking around the room, Draco connected with Weasley’s hard glare, one that clearly said he was there for Potter and cared quite little whether or not Draco went to Azkaban. Draco shuddered. Granger, on Weasley’s right, looked pale and shaken. She watched Potter apprehensively.

“Mr. Potter, you would like to offer evidence for the defence of Draco Lucius Malfoy?” asked one of the Wizengamot members.

“Yeah. Er, I have three memories I would like to submit for the Minister’s consideration.”

Memories? That didn’t seem like it could help anything. What good memories could Potter possibly have of him?

“Let the record show that those have been received and reviewed.”

Potter nodded. Awkwardly, he cleared his throat and pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket. “And I have a brief statement I’d like to read.”

What was happening?

Potter began to read. “Draco Malfoy was a classmate of mine at Hogwarts, though we never got along. However, I believe that he did not willingly support Voldemort.” Draco flinched. “During our sixth year …”

Draco found it hard to concentrate on what Potter was saying. Apprehension tingled through his nerves. Instead, he watched Weasley and Granger. Potter spoke, and Granger mouthed every word silently as though she’d helped him practise that speech over and over before. Then Granger was still, and Potter was sitting beside her once more and the Wizengamot was speaking.

What? What were they—

Numbness invaded him. He could only stare in disbelief.

“Draco, Draco, did you hear them? Darling, you’re safe.” Mother’s arms were around him and she was sobbing into his chest.

Across the room, Potter exchanged a pleased smile with Weasley, and Granger finally relaxed enough to let herself be pulled into a clumsy one-armed hug.

What did they mean they weren’t going to punish him? Didn’t they know what he’d done? And all because of Potter? How did the fucker have so much influence he could get the Wizengamot to forget the crimes of a _fucking_ Death Eater? Draco knew what he’d done. He’d tried to kill Dumbledore! _He_ _had_ gotten Dumbledore killed!

They were going to let him go free with only a slap on the wrist and not a thing to lessen any of his corrosive guilt. He deserved to be in Azkaban. If he wasn’t such a coward and if leaving Mother alone wouldn’t destroy her, he would wish for Azkaban over this. At least Azkaban was something. He needed something to happen to him, something to make him feel less guilty, or at least something to be angry at other than his father and himself.

The reporters buzzed about the door like vultures, and only the burly aurors at Mother’s and his either side kept the swarm at bay.

* * *

_Tuesday, 11 January 2005_

After a restless night, Draco was already waiting outside room four hundred and twelve in the DMFS at seven thirty-eight in the morning. He’d arrived an hour early just to be certain he would be there before her—to be sure that he would have some type of upper hand, however small, over her—but he needn’t have. He sat straight-backed on the uncomfortable bench, keeping his hands splayed on his kneecaps as if utterly at ease in order to stop himself from fidgeting. But his fingers itched to move; every minute or so he caught his foot tapping or his knee bouncing, and he’d return to his quiet stance only to have it broken again.

He’d tormented Granger for six years at Hogwarts, watched Aunt Bella torture her, had his life saved by her. And he had not spoken to her in six years. What was he—anyone, really—supposed to say to her after that? Sorry hardly covered it. Even more, she _hated_ this law. He’d seen her in the newspaper the past three years as she vehemently protested the act. Now she was being forced into marriage and he was her betrothed. Him.

So, what was he supposed to say?

The question had plagued him for nearly two years, ever since he’d received his DMFS letter. There had been a number of confusing meetings afterwards, several tiers of harrowed employees _begging_ him to keep their mistake quiet. He’d agreed, mostly so not as to not have to deal with their bureaucratic drivel.

Now, he wondered if Granger would hold him complicit. Did she even know?

What was he supposed to say? A year and a half to think it over and he still didn’t have an answer—not so much as a draft.

At Hogwarts, almost ten years ago now, Granger had been a swot, know-it-all who hadn’t known when to shut up. Despite being attached at the hip to Potter and Weasley, she’d been a stickler for rules and an unapologetic teacher’s pet. It seemed she’d shed some of her good-girl prudishness, at least in regard to her campaign against the Ministry. Then again, she’d always been happy to bend the rules when it suited her ends; she’d certainly let Potter and Weasley do it often enough.

The last Draco had seen of her was in his repeat eighth year and also, apart from occasional mentions in the paper, the last he had heard of her until his twenty-third birthday. But outside of knowing who her friends were and that she was muggleborn and clever, he knew almost nothing about her. Even the papers had been unusually silent on the witch of late, and he was lacking updates on her behaviour. Merlin knew, how different she could be now: look at him.

He was abruptly pulled from his thoughts as Granger arrived on the arm of—was it Ginny?—Weasley, dishevelled and gruesomely hungover. Yes, Ginny. There was some gruesome Quidditch chant that the Harpies supporters liked, wasn’t there? _Gin for the win! Gin for the win!_

The Weasley handed the vial—of what he recognised to be a hangover potion—to Granger and then stalked towards him.

“A word, Malfoy,” Ginny Weasley growled dangerously.

Draco obliged, and she led him down the hall and around a corner, out of earshot of Granger. Her Weasley freckles and red hair were the same as ever, but her time playing for the Holyhead Harpies was evident by her athletic build and a not-fully-healed scar on her chin.

“Does Granger normally show up ten minutes late, utterly plastered, Weasley?”

“Hermione doesn’t drink. And it’s Potter.”

Oh yes, he remembered seeing the announcement, or rather headline, in the paper maybe three years ago now: _HERO FINDS HAPPINESS AFTER HARROWING HUNT._

“No? Just dehydrated then?”

“We’re not talking about this,” she said.

“Why not? Personally, I’d like to know if I’m marrying a drunk. I think it’s an important factor to consider before, you know, I tie the knot.”

Her jaw clenched. “I’ll just let you enjoy the suspense.”

“No, _really_ , what could’ve possibly caused Granger to turn into a washed-up alcoholic?”

“This isn’t about Hermione.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I mean, yeah, it’s about Hermione, but it’s not about – oh, for Merlin’s sake!” She sucked in an annoyed breath. “Malfoy, shut up, stop interrupting, and listen. People say you’ve changed and maybe you have, I don’t know. But frankly, I don’t care. I just—”

“Now, surely that’s not true?” interrupted Draco. “I’d think that you would care a great deal whom Granger marries. But you don’t have to worry, Granger won’t be another one-night stand if that’s what you’re asking.”

Ginny Weasley rolled her eyes. “I’d figured as much and, no, it’s not what I’m asking.”

“Then what are you asking, Weas – Potter? Is Granger the love of my life? Do I plan on making earth-shattering love to her under the stars? Do I want to—”

“Can I trust you with Hermione?” she interrupted harshly.

“W – what?”

“Can I trust that you won’t make her more miserable than she is now?”

“Pardon?”

He hadn’t expected her to be so forthright about it. It took all the fun out of teasing.

“Your father was a violent bigot,” she said. “And your aunt was a sadistic murderer. So, tell me, Malfoy, does it run in the family?”

Shame curled in his stomach. Bad enough she was saying what she meant, even worse that she wanted to remind him of the awful reasons why she needed to say it at all. It took so much to escape the crushing weight of guilt that it _hurt almost physically_ to be trapped beneath it again. No. _No._ She _had_ to realise he wasn’t like them. He _wasn’t._

The words tripped over themselves trying to get out fast enough. “You think that I—”

“It kills me.” She straightened to stand at her full height.

Even though, at six four, Draco towered over her, Ginny Potter’s stare knocked off a good six inches.

“I kills me that there is _nothing_ I can do to protect her. She’s already done everything and it hasn’t worked, and anything else I could do she’s too goddamn stubborn to let me, and now they put her with you and I can’t protect her—”

“Potter, I would never—” he started.

“Malfoy, if you take advantage of her or treat her poorly, I will do things to you that will make Bellatrix seem like a first year playing with stinging hexes. Harry, Ron, my _mother_ —we will make you regret ever breathing.”

Draco tried not to growl. “Don’t make threats you don’t understand.”

Her eyes widened.

He’d _lived_ with Bella. Nothing that was whispered in rumours even approached what his aunt had been capable of. Wizards and witches like Bella _enjoyed_ hurting people. They liked it when they had someone at wandpoint begging for mercy or, better yet, death. Draco had been on the receiving end of Weasley’s bat-bogey hex before, and he remembered the look in Potter’s eye that day in the lavatory sixth year. He knew neither Weasley nor Potter, nor any Weasley had the stomach for true depravity. Weasley didn’t know what she was talking about.

Draco gathered himself.

“None of you could match Bella, as hard as you try,” he said, and took another breath. “But I would never take advantage of Granger.” ~~~~

“How am I supposed to believe that?”

“Do you really think that _I_ could ever get the better of the Brightest Witch of Her Age?”

Was Weasley kidding herself? That was the other thing. Whether or not Draco could best Granger in potions, he wasn’t about to risk her wand. Surely, he knew darker, deadlier spells than Granger did, but that was purely proximity, and he’d seen those spells cast enough that to know he never wanted to use them. He’d resigned himself years ago to rely upon words, reputation, and galleons. Not only would he never raise a wand to a witch, what he’d actually do with his wand didn’t approach Weasley’s fears.

Weasley shrugged. “I don’t know what you get up to in your spare time.”

“So, now I’m Ekrizdis scheming in my dungeon?” he asked.

She didn’t object, and he sighed. “Look, Weasley – sorry, Potter. Look, I’m a busy wizard, and I don’t have the time to be planning pranks on Granger. I was a bully a Hogwarts, but I’ve grown up.”

“Fine,” she said.

For an instant he was surprised it’d been so easy, but then she shook her head. “Actually, no. No, that’s not what I meant. I’ve never been worried about pranks. And if you’ve grown up like you say you have, you should know that.”

As much as Draco hated that Weasley insisted on being sincere, a sliver of him was grateful that she was getting this out of the way now.

“So, do you?” she pressed. “Do you get what it is?”

Draco inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. “Yes, Weasley. Potter. Whatever. I know I was a bully and worse. Mean. Bigoted. A Death Eater. I hated her, I thought I was better than her. But I don’t – you’ve _got to_ believe me that I’ve realised I was wrong.”

She considered him. _Really_ considered him for what felt like minutes. “Okay.”

Relief flooded in. He was no longer Atlas.

“Well, I should ….” he glanced towards the way they’d come.

Potter nodded, and he waited to let her go first. ~~~~

They had hardly turned the corner when a pompous-looking witch in nauseatingly frilly brown robes stepped out of room four hundred and twelve.

“Oh, finally, you’re all here,” the woman said primly, adjusting her collar, managing to sound surprised and put out at the same time. “Come on then, I don’t have all day.”

Potter didn’t spare him a second glance as she saw Granger into the room. He stood there, rooted to the spot for a minute, only moving forward when he noticed the impatient look the Ministry witch was sending him.

Nearing her, he could tell that her tan was clearly charmed, the poorly-cast glamour clashed subtlety with her natural strawberry blonde fringe. In all, it did the twenty-something no favours and easily added five years. The witch—Erica Neilson according to the DMFS badge pinned to the front of her robes—held the door open just long enough for him to enter before stepping away with an impolite haste and letting it slam shut.

Draco trailed her, slowly making his way towards the conference room table where Granger sat, looking far more composed than she had minutes before. He eased into the chair beside Granger as Miss Neilson click-click-clicked around the long table to sit opposite them.

“Very well, Mr. Malfoy and Miss Granger—”

“Ms.” corrected Granger.

“Now that you’re _both_ here,” Miss Neilson continued with a pointed look at Granger, “we can get started. Typically, in these meetings we like to go over the law before we work through your licence and personalised marriage contract, and then we talk through any other questions that you may have not yet had a chance to discuss.”

She waved her wand—a bland, slightly crooked one—and a stack of parchment materialized; she flicked her wand again and the tower divided itself, in a flurry of paper, into three neat piles.

Miss Neilson seemed the sort of person who was unpleasantly neat and orderly, someone whom Dolores Umbridge would have enjoyed mentoring. Though he’d relished the power of the Inquisitorial Squad, Draco had found Umbridge, herself, saccharine and desperate. Even at fifteen, hungry for all the popularity he could get, her obvious vying for status had struck him as tasteless and pathetic.

“When the WRRA was established, the Ministry—” Miss Neilson began, but was cut off by Granger.

“Miss Neilson, we’re both very familiar with the law, so there’s no need for the speech,” Granger said dismissively. “You _should_ know this, though—I assume you were briefed on our particular situation. So then, please do cut to the chase.”

Looking extremely affronted and flustered at the interruption, Miss Neilson shuffled some papers around, pulled a small pile toward herself and then slid a stack each to Granger and Draco.

“Miss Granger,” she started but was again interrupted as Granger corrected her.

Scowling condescendingly Miss Nielson began once more, “ _Ms_. Granger, even though you may not have picked Mr. Malfoy as your husband your compatibility was incredibly high. The tests don’t make mistakes. The Ministry worked to ensure—”

“Yes, there’s never been a lapse of judgment in the Ministry’s secret dealings before,” Granger interjected sarcastically.

“They’re hardly secret, Miss Granger.” Miss Neilson passed a pamphlet to Granger and pretended not to hear Granger correct her again.

Granger’s eyes rapidly scanned the page, eyebrows knitting closer together the further she read. As Draco remembered from Hogwarts, her hair was a whirlwind of dark curls. She was thinner now than she’d been eighth year—at least thinner than she had been at the end of eighth year—and it showed on her face. Dark circles that long preceded her current hangover ringed her eyes, skin only-barely softened her cheekbones, and a pallor had replaced her typically rosy complexion. Attractive? _Salazar, yes_. Still, she’d looked better.

Strangely, she seemed very much the same bossy swot she had been at school and, yet, entirely different. Arriving hungover. Telling off a Ministry official. It was hard to figure out what to make of her. More than ever, though, he did not want to piss her off.

And again, what was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to stave off his guilt? Already, the aching weight was back. Hercules would not be tricked. What Draco had managed these past few years where he’d finally begun to feel lighter— _useful_ , loved, almost decent—was that as good as gone?

“Soothsaying,” Granger scoffed when she finished reading. “It’s a forced marriage regardless of the results from whatever faulty, conjectural magic helps the Ministry feel justified.”

“This magic has been used for centuries!” Miss Neilson grew slightly shriller and her cheeks coloured faintly.

“Yeah, by purebloods for arranged marriages and we know how well _that_ turned out.”

“You shouldn’t mock,” insisted Miss Neilson.

“I’ve never much fancied divination, Miss Neilson.”

Draco fought to stifle his scoff at _that_ gross understatement. As he remembered, Granger’s disdain for the subject was so deep, it had been the only class at Hogwarts she’d ever dropped.

Miss Neilson replied, “ _You_ may not understand since this form of magic is very complex, but—”

It was impossible to miss her meaning.

“—the modern, progressive reform is necessary for our survival. The Ministry took great care to make sure that it would suit the needs of young witches and wizards.”

Draco wanted to say something but couldn’t quite think what. Unless Granger had already managed to deeply wound Miss Neilson’s pride—which seemed unlikely, because as far as he could tell they had only just met today—Miss Neilson had some aspiring purist inclinations.

Before his thoughts could trickle into any sort of coherency Granger hummed disbelievingly.

The hum set Miss Neilson off even more. Or perhaps she was going to continue anyway.

“You are probably not aware, Miss Granger, but there is now an amendment that allows for divor—”

“I’m aware, Miss Neilson. I proposed it.”

Miss Neilson sputtered like a fish before regaining speech functions. “If you understand how the law accommodates—”

“Accommodates?” repeated Granger with a laugh.

“Yes, it accommodates—”

Draco cut in, “Are we able to begin?”

As fascinating as it was to see this side of Granger, Draco was eager to begin the negotiations of his and Granger’s nuptials before either Granger or Miss Neilson drew wand.

“Oh. Yes, yes, of course.” Miss Neilson practically fell over herself. “Now, first things firs—”

“I won’t be changing my name,” Granger said.

Granger had glanced sideways to see his reaction to her sudden demand, and they locked eyes. She seemed to be challenging him.

Having grown up expecting he’d have an arranged marriage it had been a given that whichever witch Draco married would take the Malfoy name. Everything had gone up in the air when he’d found out Granger was his match. After that, all expectations had dashed away on a broomstick. So, there were no expectations, no disappointment.

Both Miss Neilson and he had frozen, but Draco was quicker to recover.

“And if it were a different name?” he asked.

Granger nodded, understanding the unasked question. “I’d like Granger just fine, even then. Though, I might be more persuadable.”

Their interaction seemed to have flown far above Miss Neilson’s head, and she butted in tactlessly, “Customarily Miss Granger—”

“Again, it’s _Ms._ Granger.”

“What? Oh. Well, as I was saying, it is customary for a witch to take her husband’s name upon marriage. You’d be rather significantly disregarding a hundred of years of tradition if—”

“Is it legally required?” Granger asked.

“Well, no. But—”

“Then, I think the matter’s settled. I’m sure you’d agree it’s a much larger disregard of tradition for a Malfoy to marry a muggleborn.”

Draco snorted.

“I don’t see why you—”

Granger spoke over Miss Nielson. “What I _really_ don’t understand is why this is of any concern to _you_.”

“Why it’s – I—”

Draco ignored Miss Neilson, far more interested in the actual matter under consideration. “So, our children would be what? Malfoy? Malfoy-Granger?”

Granger blinked. She studied him intently.

Miss Neilson stopped speaking, finally having grasped that a different conversation was occurring around her.

“Not Malfoy,” Granger decided slowly.

“Malfoy-Granger it is.” He held her gaze.

She held his gaze.

Miss Neilson glanced from him to Granger and back, utterly lost. The witch was annoying, and he felt a small vindictive impulse flare up inside of him.

“Did you have something you wanted to say, or are we supposed to sit here in silence for the next hour?” Draco inquired coolly, making a show of impatiently drumming his fingers.

Miss Neilson started, curling away from him slightly. “If you would …”

There was paperwork upon paperwork for them to sign and it took half an hour for Granger and he—already not ones to merely skim—to read through the contract. It was almost entirely explanation of the law itself, spelled out in tedious detail.

Finally, Draco signed at the last _X_.

Miss Neilson gathered his contract and waited for Granger to finish signing before taking hers as well.

“We’re about to get into your individualized marriage contract, so if either you or Miss Granger—”

“ _Ms._ Granger.”

“—have anything you would like to request as part of your marriage contract at this time, you may do so.”

Miss Neilson had hardly finished before the words left his mouth, “A fidelity clause.”

Granger’s head snapped towards him.

Eagerly, Miss Neilson began prattling, “Yes, that’s a very good precaution to put in place. Just in case. You never really know, after—”

 _“What?!”_ Granger’s strangled cry came after a moment of shock. “ _You_ want a fidelity clause?”

“Yes, _I_ do.”

“Wh – why?”

Draco had surprised himself as much as he’d surprised Granger. Now that he’d said it, though, he wanted it. He wanted to be happy, or as happy as he’d ever be able to be—whatever that meant. If marriage and children were not up to him, that didn’t mean he had to surrender his last few fragments of pride or the happiness he had left. He had no false hopes that theirs would be a _legitimate_ marriage, but adultery was a weak wizard’s vice. Or weak witch’s. Love or no love, it was a pathetic wizard who strayed from his vows. For all the things Draco was, and for all he wasn’t, he had learned to hold promises sacred. He couldn’t make a vow if it lacked integrity.

Draco found himself slightly taken aback at Granger’s incredulity.

“Because I don’t want my wife,” he said, and didn’t miss her flinch, “sleeping with other men.”

“So, it’s fine for _you_ to go hopping from bed to bed, yet you expect _me_ —”

“It’d go both ways, of course,” he said. “I have no desire to hop—or move in any other fashion—between beds of women who are not my wife.”

Again, he noted how she winced. However, his words had calmed her outrage and she seemed rather at a loss for what to say.

“There is a traditional fidelity clause, I’ll add it for you now,” Miss Neilson said, with her characteristic poor timing.

“No,” Granger said.

“Pardon?” Miss Neilson asked in confusion. “You don’t want—”

Draco ignored her, focused upon Granger. “I want a legal guarantee that we’ll both remain faithful.”

Granger eyed him hard. There was a deliberateness in her words when she spoke. “No. No, I won’t sign any sort of fidelity clause. No. There’s absolutely no reason that such a – such an outdated and punitive measure is necessary at all.”

“It doesn’t have to be an archaic version,” he negotiated. “We can write our own agreement—”

“Having a contract is only useful to impose penalties,” argued Granger. “And until the act’s overturned, you can’t divorce me, so unless you’re interested in putting some curse on us, I don’t really see the reason.”

It was a valid point. And he had not missed the caveat she’d left unsaid. _He_ couldn’t divorce her for any cause other than abuse. It went without saying that Granger was above doubt. He could not divorce her, even if she was not yet sure that _she_ could not divorce him. What, then, was the use of a fidelity clause to him?

Draco cast a sidelong look at Miss Neilson—who was watching them intently—and sighed.

Steeling himself for the woman’s indelicacy, he asked, “Could we have a moment alone?”

“A moment alone? Why—”

He saw a flash of movement under the table, and then Granger discretely slid her wand back into her coat pocket. Across the table, Miss Neilson had stopped mid-sentence and was vigorously rubbing at her ears.

Granger turned towards him. “Forgive me if I’m wary of a thousand-year-old history of violent and manipulative marriages.”

He hadn’t guessed she would trust him. He’d figured she wouldn’t. Still, the weight was heavier now. But this was his future too. Sod it. She couldn’t ask him to sacrifice that.

“This is happening,” he said. “I don’t want to get married. I know you don’t want to either, but this is still happening. Like it or not, it is, and I don’t want my children to suffer because we,” he gestured between them. “Because we never bothered to make our marriage work.”

“I don’t see how a fidelity clause means that our marriage will work, or why we couldn’t be decent parents without a fidelity clause,” she said.

“I’m a jealous wizard, Granger. What can I say?” He was in fact, and he didn’t stop himself from smirking as he said it.

She huffed. “I refuse to allow the Ministry and Wizengamot an opportunity to meddle further in my life. There will be no fidelity clause.”

Draco was silent, mulling over her words. Did he want the Ministry in his bedroom? No.

“So, I’m just supposed to give in?” he asked.

“I’ll give you my word,” she offered.

Oddly, he believed her.

He held her gaze firmly. “Your word?”

“My word.”

“Alright.”

Their sidebar complete, Granger’s wand moved covertly again—entirely undetectable to Miss Neilson—and the other witch stopped clawing at her ears.

“There won’t be a fidelity clause.” He glanced again at her. “Are you alright, Miss Neilson, you look rather ill.”

“No, no. I’m fine.”

Draco was curious to know what spell Granger had used—it wasn’t anything they had learned in school and he doubted it would’ve met regulation.

“Then shall we continue?” Granger eyed Miss Neilson with an almost beady glee.

Under Granger’s scrutiny, Miss Neilson straightened and readjusted her papers. “Mr. Malfoy has already filed all of his financial information, so if you would just confirm a few things.”

Granger nodded that, yes, she would.

“Wonderful,” Miss Neilson said with a tight-lipped smile, scanning over the paperwork. “Is it correct that you are currently unemployed and your Gringotts holdings are valued at less than eighty-five galleons?”

“What!?” Draco didn’t intend to interrupt, but his shock escaped.

Irritated, Granger glared at him expectantly. “Yes?”

“How – how it that possible?”

“I buy a lot of books,” she said dryly, and turned back to Miss Neilson. “Yes, that’s the correct amount.”

It made no sense. She’d been rewarded for her role in the war, he knew. And she’d worked for the Ministry after Hogwarts. How in the world had she spent all that money already? But more pressingly, what would happen if he died? If they had children by then?

“We need to combine assets then.”

Miss Neilson stopped, but Granger didn’t even look at him. “No.”

“You are _destitute_ , Grange—”

“I am hardly destitute. We will not be combining assets.”

“But—”

“And certainly not at _this_ time.”

Her meaning made clear, Draco closed his mouth and nodded.

Miss Neilson went on, “Right then. _Ms._ Granger, you currently rent an apartment and have no other real estate holdings, correct?”

A nod.

“And your lease is up at the end of the month?”

Another nod.

“Do you have any other notable assets to include?”

“I have a considerably large collection of books.”

Miss Neilson couldn’t hide her scorn. “I don’t believe that really counts. Anything else?”

Granger shook her head.

“Any debts?”

Granger frowned, dragging her teeth over her lip.

“None,” she said at last.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Draco asked.

“I have no debts.”

But she had hovered over the word strangely.

“Is there something else then?” he asked.

Granger sniffed. “I may have some unpaid fines.”

“Ah, yes.” Unhelpfully, Miss Neilson chimed in, “It says here you have five hundred twenty-five galleons in unpaid fines for your violations of the WRRA.”

Granger glared at Miss Neilson. Draco felt much too astonished to speak.

“Well that’s all,” Miss Neilson simpered with fake cheeriness, looking up from her note taking and smiling officiously at Granger. “It seems that you’ll be moving into Malfoy Manor with Mr. Malfoy.”

 _“_ _What?”_ Granger barked.

Miss Neilson jumped slightly in surprise and went about straightening her papers while she answered slowly, as if to a small child. “Well, _Ms._ Granger, the law states that those with an annual income under nine hundred and ninety-six galleons are required to move in with the providing partner as to ensure the couple’s financial security. And, _Ms._ Granger, since you owe over five hundred galleons and your income is _zero_ galleons a year, you are quite definitively unable to be considered the providing partner.”

Granger’s eyes widened, horrified, and Draco realised that somehow, precisely where their union would require her to live had only connected in her mind now. He wondered if maybe she hadn’t known he still lived at the Manor.

“I – I wish to apply for a—” ~~~~

“I’m _terribly afraid_ that it’s rather impossible for you to do that.” Miss Neilson’s tone was as sickly sweet as ever when she cut in. “You see, your rental payments have been – well, let’s just say _remiss_ of late and the Ministry has become aware of your eviction notice for the end of this month. Never mind that you have outstanding debts to the Ministry. Even without mentioning _that_ little pickle, whether identified by the Ministry or applied for by the couple, the providing partner is required to have at least some amount of income. And you simply fail to qualify. Had you _actually_ bothered to read the law—”

Granger snapped across Miss Neilson for the fifteenth time. “There is _no way in hell_ that I will ever live with him in _that_ place! I would like to speak to the Minister about this or to one of your superiors at the very least.”

“That’s _quite enough_ , Miss Granger!” Miss Neilson burst out angrily, smacking her hands against the tabletop as she stood suddenly from her seat to glare down at Granger.

“Ms.—”

“I don’t care who you are or who you know, you will not patronize me! You are not the only person affected by this law and would do well to remember it. I won’t put up with entitled witches like yourself thinking that they are some poor victim who deserves special treatment. You are not above the law!”

“Wha—”

“The world doesn’t revolve around you. While you’ve been off gallivanting around, Mr. Malfoy’s life was put on hold for a year and a half. After everything you’ve done, you should be eternally grateful that the Minister hasn’t already locked you away. You think you’re above everyone else? If I were you—”

Draco cut clear across the miserable woman in a low and deadly drawl. “Thankfully you are _most certainly not_ her, Miss Neilson, because if I was supposed to marry _you_ , I’d be protesting against this law as much as Ms. Granger.”

How dare she paint him – him, a Death Eater, as the victim of anyone. Let alone Hermione Granger. He could hardly believe her. It was incredibly unprofessional. It was laughable, except it wasn’t. It was unbelievable.

“Miss Neilson,” he went on. “Don’t dare to presume that you of all people know best. And you have no business speaking to my fiancée in that way. In fact, I would be much more respectful to Ms. Granger in general, _Erica_.”

Erica Neilson bristled uncomfortably as he continued.

“I highly doubt that this little display of yours would play over well with the Minister either. A lowly assistant defending,” he paused to savour the irony of the next words, “a _Death Eater’s honour_ against a _renowned war hero_ ,” Draco finished off in nearly a hiss, as she nervously arranged papers.

No one spoke for a few moments: the only noise came from Miss Neilson’s incessant straightening, but he could practically hear the cogs in Granger’s brain whirring beside him as she processed the situation.

Finally, Miss Neilson said in a very small voice, “Shall I continue?”

The Ministry had _generously_ seen fit to attempt to bureaucratize the most mundane bits of married life. On behalf of Granger—who was now considerably subdued, seemingly lost in thought and barely saying a word—and himself, Draco declined from settling just yet upon any division of household labour, child rearing, etc. They would decide later by themselves, or through mediation, if necessary.

He almost thought Granger would be roused from her stupor when Miss Neilson asked about house elves: would _Miss_ Granger like to request that she receive assistance with childcare or housework from the Malfoy house elves? It was a rather popular request among pureblood witches. Or would Mr. Malfoy like to forbid _Miss_ Granger from ordering anything of the Malfoy house elves? It wasn’t unusual for husbands to refuse, after all, so he needn’t feel obligated to allow such indulgences.

Draco waited, watching Granger. She’d been obsessed with that club—S.P.I.T., wasn’t it? Or was it S.E.W.E.R.?

But no. Granger said nothing.

Disappointed, Draco said they would decide on it later.

But what if they disagreed?

He sighed. “Then we’ll get mediation.”

Honestly, where did these people come from?

Miss Neilson went through a simply insane amount of questions. Would they like to agree to forbid muggle technology inside the home? If they ever should move, would they want to agree to not live within five hundred feet of muggles? And so on.

Periodically Draco glanced over at Granger, her silence making Ginny Potter’s words from earlier echo all the louder in his head.

“Mr. Malfoy?” Miss Neilson repeated, interrupting his thoughts.

“Sorry, could you repeat the question?” he asked.

“Mr. Malfoy and Miss Granger, would you like to include the Marriage Clauses in your—”

“No!” Draco cut in quickly, disgusted at the suggestion.

The Marriage Clauses were a series of stipulations common in pureblood marriage contracts that dated back to medieval wizarding law. Had Granger been fully engaged, she would have, undoubtedly, wasted no time in informing Miss Neilson and him of the various ways that they robbed witches of power. Not that he needed convincing—he’d seen the abuse first-hand: from the glamour charms of housemates’ mothers to the frightened look of pureblood fiancées. He could hardly imagine the same happening to Granger—it just seemed so … wrong.

“No,” he said again. “Don’t include the Marriage Clauses.”

In the back of his mind Ginny Potter’s voice echoed: _they put her with you, and I can’t protect her_.

Miss Neilson scribbled for a second, then slid forward a new set of papers. “I believe you requested a fidelity clause earlier, Mr. Malfoy. This uses the standard language, but you can of course modify it as you like.”

Draco stared at her. “Did you not hear Granger refuse a fidelity clause, or have you been confunded?”

She blushed. “I only thought that you – well, maybe that you would have – or might want to reconsider.”

“I do not want to reconsider.” Draco scrutinised her. “Do you understand that, Miss Neilson?”

She squirmed but nodded, and asked, “Are there any other requests you would care to make?”

Draco shook his head, and Granger remained distracted.

“You decided earlier on the last names for your children. Many couple prefer to formalize agreements along those lines within their paperwork, to avoid disagreement down the line. I could add the language quite easily, or if there’s anything else that—”

“I don’t believe that will be necessary.”

“Or if you have preferences for the bonding ceremony?”

“I think we’ll decide at the time.”

Miss Neilson made several marks in her papers before she looked up again. “If you will just read over this, and then sign your name on the final line.” She indicated the proper place.

It was fifteen-page agreement to procrastinate a hundred arguments they’d have later, but at least without an oversized childminder at their shoulders, something that Granger seemed desperately set against. For a witch who’d given the last few years of her life to picking fights with the Ministry she seemed oddly wary of them. Though, on second thought, maybe it wasn’t odd at all, but inevitable.

When Draco was done and had penned his name, Miss Neilson passed the parchment to Granger, who scrawled her name on the last page without so-much-as glancing at the text. Taking it, Miss Neilson neatly placed it with the other hundred pages, straightening the stack.

“And sign at the bottom here,” Miss Neilson instructed him, sliding forward one last form.

He did.

“Miss Granger, if you would.”

Again, Granger wrote her own name, without really seeing. And again, Miss Neilson added the page to the pile and carefully straightened the stack. She tapped the papers a few times with her wand and sent the whole tower zooming out of the room.

Primly she turned to face them. “Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy, you’re legally married.”

That seemed to finally shake Granger from her thoughts. “Wha—”

He was faster.

“It’s _still_ Ms. Granger, Erica,” he said, coldly eyeing the witch who stiffened under his stare.

“Yes, well,” Miss Neilson shifted uncomfortably.

“Thank you for your professionalism, Miss Neilson. Is that everything?”

She winced. “The bonding ceremony is this evening at eight o’clock. The officiant is at a destination wedding all day, but he made an exception.”

Granger stood and hurried towards the door. Draco followed, letting it swing shut on Miss Neilson as she gathered her things from the table.

Ginny Weas – Potter was there waiting outside in the hall, and she spared him one searching look before she coaxed Granger away towards the lifts.

Rather than the lifts, he chose to find the stairwell—a newly installed safety precaution in response to the chaos during the war—and followed it out into a deserted alleyway. Though after nine o’clock and, now, nearing ten o’clock, it was still likely enough straggling Ministry workers would be flooding the Atrium that he thought it best that he leave unseen. And as most wizards and witches considered the stairs a silly muggle nuisance, he saw no one on his way out.

Once above ground, Draco strode through the streets of muggle London. He was finally free of the horrid bureaucrat and at least for now, he was enjoying the mild weather. Over the years, his ignominy in the wizarding world had decreased but he had grown to prefer to anonymity of the muggle world where there was no concern about slurs, assault, or shopkeepers refusing him service. Apart from the necessary trips to Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade for robes or potions supplies he kept most of his outings to muggle London.

Draco couldn’t help but recall how Granger all-but collapsed into her friend’s arms just steps from the door. Although he toyed with the idea of illness, he decided that Granger’s fatigue appeared more stress ridden. He truly knew nearly nothing about his fiancée and was quickly beginning to doubt the truth of the little he did know—Granger today was an entirely different entity than the Granger from their Hogwarts days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed—or didn't—any and all reviews are very much welcome and appreciated. I really love hearing your feedback, constructive criticism, or rambling thoughts and reactions. Thanks so much for reading!  
> P.S. Chapter Five: The Knot should be up next weekend, but may be a few days late just because of finals. It’s finally Hermione’s turn!  
> P.P.S. I am looking for an alpha/beta-reader. If anyone is interested, please let me know.


	5. The Knot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plan initially, was to have the entire chapter be from Hermione’s perspective, but then she was just being so oblivious that she needed a friend to spot some obvious truths. Enter Harry. I enjoyed writing this one, and I hope you like all the awkwardness as much as I do.  
> With everything happening, I hope you are healthy and well.  
> Thank you for all your lovely reviews! And special thanks to FloraMacDonald for brit-picking!  
> Now, please enjoy!  
> -AFOR (May 26, 2020)

_Tuesday, 11 January 2005_

Hermione finished towelling off, slipped into her terry dressing gown, and made her way out of the bathroom, down the unlit hallway, and into her gloomy kitchen, the only room in her tiny flat with a street view.

Rain fell as dusk advanced rapidly. Within half an hour the people below would be only shadowy blurs in the sea of London streets. Streetlights flicked on outside casting soft yellow oases of light at regular intervals along the city blocks. From here Hermione could see the occasional umbrella going by on the pavement below and a cab stopping to let a woman get in. The minutes ticked by, and slowly the shop lights turned off and the apartment lights flickered on, cars passed through the murky blackness in streaks of red and yellow, and a man on the pavement made himself known by the dim orange glow of his cigarette. There was distant laughter and the odd car horn or skidding of tires amidst the constant patter of the rain on the roof and windowpane and street, but otherwise the flat was silent.

It had been a long day. Hermione felt blank—too exhausted to think about what had happened, what was about to happen. And so, she let the emotions and swirling thoughts drain away. Hermione’s gaze shifted from the window to the kitchen, overlaid in shades of dusky grey: the sink half-filled with mugs and an odd spoon, the cooking appliances, the maidenhair fern ( _Adiantum tenerum_ ) on the windowsill whose leafy tendrils spilled over onto the white tile counter.

Such a long day. It wasn’t even over yet and she was exhausted from everything that had already happened.

Ginny had pried her out of bed mercilessly, handing over the dangled hangover potion only once they’d arrived at the DMFS. But the pounding headache had lingered all through her meeting with Malfoy and that vicious Neilson woman until well past noon. That god-awful meeting had not done her throbbing head any favours. Having dealt with the oversensitive lovesick witches and wizards that tended to work in the DMFS, only Neilson’s transparency had surprised Hermione. Idiocy and purism she’d dealt with for years from the DMFS. Malfoy on the other hand. She hadn’t expected him to come to her defence. She hadn’t expected – well …

Hermione wanted to shake herself for the way she’d withdrawn at just the mention of Malfoy Manor. Embarrassment ran hot under her skin even now. What was wrong with her? How had she been so stupid? She _knew_ that she was ineligible— _she knew that_ —but somehow hadn’t realised what it meant. And he still lived _there_. Had she let herself think about it and not stopped her thoughts before they got that far, she could’ve put it together last night. She should have been able to. But she hadn’t. How had she missed it?

How much of the meeting had she missed? Hermione had the vague sense that almost nothing had been decided, and she couldn’t help feeling indebted to Malfoy for that and embarrassed. It went to what Audrey had asked last night—did she think he would hurt her? No. Hermione was ashamed she’d implied that he might. Guilt roiled in her stomach. She’d been late and hungover, and then unresponsive for half of the meeting. Malfoy had defended her.

Hermione had let herself rely on him, too. She’d gone to pieces as soon as the Minister had given her the news yesterday: crying, whinging, drinking. As much as she might pretend she was clever and brave enough to stand up to the entire Ministry for two years, the second that the law was pressing in on her—the moment it became real—she had crumbled. Some sort of Gryffindor she was.

Now, she understood the apathy of other witches and wizards that had frustrated her for years. Many witches and wizards had helped with her research and petitions and letter campaigns over the past two years. Her name might’ve been the one in the papers, but another thirty had slowly rotated in and out, assisting with the drudgework. Apart from friends, who helped as they were able, none of the volunteers had lasted long. Like clockwork, the witch or wizard would approach her anywhere from six to three months before their twenty-third birthday. They’d dedicate themselves over the next few months to the cause. Then, about a month before they turned twenty-three, there would come a lull. Depending on the witch or wizard, they might linger around for another few weeks, a few times months, but invariably, all of them would turn up less and less until eventually her owls simply went unanswered.

Was she any different? Now that it was actually happening to _her_ , what point was there?

Something moved behind her.

Ginny had come in, a garment bag levitating behind her. Not a good sign.

“What’s _that?_ ” Hermione asked.

“I may,” Gin pulled her most innocent face, “have gotten you a wedding dress.”

“No.” Most definitely not. How could Ginny even suggest that? “No, I’m not – I’m not dolling myself up. I’m not _Lav-Lav_.”

Ginny snorted, but pressed on, “It’s just a dress, not a different personality.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, and I think it’s silly,” retorted Ginny.

“Silly?” Hermione echoed.

“Even if you aren’t happy about it, it’s still a big deal. Wear something that’ll make you feel good.”

Good? As if anything could make her feel good today. She could hardly think of anything that would even make her feel better. Misery had soaked into her bones at this point.

“ _That_ dress is not going to make me feel good.”

“You haven’t even seen it,” Ginny said with an eyeroll.

“Don’t need to.”

What did it matter what it looked like? It was the principle of the thing.

“Come on Mione, it won’t kill you, will it? I know it’s not what you imagined, but why can’t you still make it a little special? Wear a nice dress and knock the bastard’s socks off.”

Dresses weren’t normally what Hermione looked to when she wanted to feel powerful. Books, spells, rules—she tried to understand how the world worked, and normally an answer presented itself along the way. Dress robes and formal dresses were for those occasions that explicitly requested them, not clothes that she decided to wear at random. If she was wearing anything dressy nowadays, she was either front and centre at some memorial gala or trying to hide from well-intentioned strangers at a wedding. Curious eyes would follow her with whispers of _the_ Hermione Granger, Brightest Witch of Her Age _or so people said_ , and was that – yes _that_ one, really her? Those sorts of robes and dresses always seemed to attract the unwanted attention that made her itch. Of course, there was _something_ to how people looked at her when she was wearing them.

And books, archives, rules, laws, and spells hadn’t worked so far. Yes, there was _something_ about the way people looked at her in a dress. A feeling that she still remembered from the Yule Ball. What was there to lose?

Hermione sighed. “Yeah, alright.”

As soon as Ginny unzipped the bag, Hermione regretted saying yes.

It was on the conservative side, as Hermione preferred, but still did not have full length sleeves. Wearing it this time of year, she’d certainly be cold. Not to mention – well, it was _so_ _very_ red.

Ginny watched her apprehensively, and despite her reservations, Hermione didn’t want to hurt Ginny’s feelings.

“Well, at least it’s not white.”

Ginny relaxed. “So, you like it then?”

“It’s nice,” Hermione floundered for anything else to say. “Erm, very Gryffindor.”

Ginny smiled. “Alright, go put it on.”

She shoved the dress into Hermione’s hands, and Hermione retreated to her bedroom.

It fit nicely, a little loose in one or two places, but nothing that one of Ginny’s tailoring charms wouldn’t fix. More, was that Hermione felt entirely too exposed in it. Not wanting to look at her reflection any longer, she returned to find Ginny in the kitchen.

“Oh, that’s great!” Ginny sprang up, grabbing her wand from beside the sink. “I’ll just take it in around the hips.”

A few muttered charms and wand flicks later Ginny stood back, proudly inspecting Hermione.

“There!” she pronounced. “How do you like it?”

“It’s nice, Gin,” Hermione said, not altogether truthfully.

“It’s a good colour, isn’t it?”

Ginny went on about the muggle shop she’d bought the dress from for another few minutes while Hermione fixed tea. After a quick excursion into Hermione’s jewellery box for the right earrings Ginny’s aesthetic sensibilities were sated, and she settled into the newest of her James anecdotes. Hermione greatly appreciated how Ginny understood intuitively that Hermione was not one for talking that evening. Everything just seemed too much tonight. Thinking, let alone speaking, was daunting. As a godsend, Ginny was ready with ample distraction.

As Ginny was now saying, Molly was well, happy to have James for the evening.

“She spoils him,” complained Ginny. “Never would have put up with it from any of us but thinks it’s adorable when _he_ does it.”

Hermione smiled. All the new Weasley parents harboured some resentment on that front, as their mother meddlesomely indulged their own children. But grandmother-hood suited Molly. She doted on her grandchildren and Teddy, who she saw as one of them without question, and they adored her. Even when James was at his trickiest, well beyond any powers Harry or Ginny possessed, Molly could have him happily giggling in five minutes. A fact that annoyed Ginny to no end. The new generation of Weasley (and Potter) children seemed to have instinctively grasped that well-learned principle: obey Molly and good food shall follow. Victoire and Teddy, as the eldest, had recently begun to test that principle, and Hermione thought that they were rather close to stumbling upon its revised version: make sure Molly thinks you are obeying her, and good food shall follow.

“You won’t _believe_ what Indira told me the referee did.”

It was nearing seven, only an hour before she was due at the DMFS, as Ginny got around to the latest Holyhead Harpies gossip. Harry was due any minute, having dropped by Grimmauld Place after work.

Sensing that Hermione’s thoughts were drifting, Ginny trailed off. She sipped her tea and gave Hermione a searching look before asking, “Are you going to go like that?”

“You mean in your dress?”

“ _Your_ dress. I just picked it out. No, I mean with your hair all – you know, and no glamours.”

“I told you I wasn’t getting dolled up,” said Hermione.

“I know, I know. Just take five, ten minutes or whatever and see what you can do.”

Just to have something to keep herself busy, Hermione complied. She didn’t look _bad_ —and that wasn’t what Ginny had meant at all—but she could see her dark circles. Incanting, she twisted her wand this way and that, scrutinizing the changes as they appeared in the mirror. If pale, she at least looked less tired. Now, for the complex sequence of charms that would tame the wilder strands curls but avoid hairspray-stiffness.

A few minutes later the sounds of Harry’s arrival filtered in, and Hermione finished with the charms on her hair—just to keep the curls out of her face. She looked fine. Nice even. Still, she felt put on display. The sleeves were so short. They rubbed at her forearms uncomfortably and she’d have no place to slip her wand.

From outside the bathroom there was some murmur about tea, then the clatter of Ginny in the kitchen. Hermione would have a clear shot at Harry now. She made her move.

Harry stood in her living room, back to her, facing the shelf of photographs that she kept amidst the books. His black hair stuck up every which way even worse than usual after his shift, though he’d managed to change out of his robes and into his newest Weasley jumper.

Hermione followed his gaze to the row of framed faces. There were a few muggle photos of her parents—their wedding, her mother holding a new born Hermione as her father beamed beside her, the three of them on holiday in France—but most of the photographs were the wizarding sort and the people in them jostled and laughed. Harry smiled out from almost every one of those. For Harry it probably felt like the family mantle that the Dursleys had never included him in. It was sweet.

Hermione took a deep breath. “What do you think?”

* * *

“What do you think?”

Turning quickly, Harry’s eyes fell on Hermione and a feeling of de ja vu hit him—he was fourteen again, barely recognizing her with her hair sleeked back, wearing periwinkle blue robes. Except now, she wore a dress in a startling blood red and her hair wandered freely.

In what had become a nervous habit, Hermione rubbed at her left forearm, and he noticed that the sleeves did not fully cover the word. It dawned upon him that it was deliberate: the colour, the sleeves, all chosen by Ginny as a careful reminder—or threat—to Malfoy not to repeat past mistakes. Harry made a mental note to complement his wife’s taste.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

“But, do you think?” Hermione turned her left arm, her gaze directed at her scar.

Over Hermione’s shoulder Ginny sent him a meaningful look.

“Not at all,” he said.

“It’s not obvious?”

“No,” Harry lied.

“That’s what I’ve been telling her.” Ginny took that moment to make her presence known, entering from the hallway as though she hadn’t been eavesdropping.

Hermione frowned, but changed tactics. “I still think it’s too formal, I don’t want him to—”

“It’s not!” Ginny protested.

“It’ll be so embarrassing if I’m wearing this and he’s just—”

“What? Wearing jeans? It’s _Draco Malfoy_ , he’ll be in dress robes.”

“I don’t want him to think I’m wearing some pretty dress _for him_.”

“What’s more likely, he’ll think less of you for being overdressed or he’ll look down on you for showing up in a sweatshirt?” asked Ginny.

“Ugh, fine!”

Although Hermione might be blind to it, Harry was certain that Malfoy would not mistake it for a pretty dress, for there was nothing _pretty_ about the dress. It was too shocking of a red to be pleasing to the eye, and it had too long of a skirt and too high of a neckline to be flirtatious. It wasn’t pretty—it set one’s teeth on edge. Best of all, she looked intimidating in it.

Yes, Harry was absolutely certain Malfoy would take it for what it was: a warning.

And Ginny was doing her damnedest to make sure Hermione didn’t muck it up.

“You’ll ruin it if you wear _those_!”

Hermione huffed. “What else am I supposed to wear, then? If you haven’t noticed, it’s _January_ and it’s spitting outside.”

Ginny held her ground. “You cannot wear wellies.”

“Fine.” Hermione kicked off her boots, stomped into her living room, and threw herself down on her couch. “Fine, then _you_ find something.”

“Alright.” Ginny slinked off, back to Hermione’s room.

Joining Hermione in the living room, Harry did his best to hide his smile from her.

Right now, Hermione was very unlikely to find anything about the argument amusing. He wished he could do something to make the situation better, but it was beyond his control. All he could really do was do his best not to piss her off even more.

“She’s going to make us late,” Hermione grumbled.

“And that suddenly bothers you?”

Hermione cast her eyes sideways at him. “Never mind then, let’s not go.”

“Come off it. Malfoy’s loads better than the dementors.”

Whatever Hermione was about to say was cut off.

“Okay!” Ginny called. “Found them!”

She entered, holding a pair of very tall heels.

“I’ll break an ankle in those.”

But Ginny got Hermione strapped into the heels—secured with a mild sticking charm, shielded with a water-repellent charm, and further insulated by an intensive cushioning charm to appease Hermione—and they departed. Not, however, before Hermione insisted on covering her dress with a god-awful beige rainslicker whose pockets she stuffed with her wand and beaded bag.

Still, Hermione complained that the ruddy things hurt and pinched her toes. Halfway to the apparition point Ginny had enough and snidely pointed out that _she_ wasn’t the idiot who’d been stupid enough to buy uncomfortable heels. Hermione muttered under her breath, something about _no_ heels being comfortable and people who force-dressed their friends. It was slow going—Hermione wobbled on the uneven pavement—but they made it to the alleyway apparition point and appeared moments later in another alley half a block from the Ministry.

Once they got inside the Ministry and onto even floor, Hermione seemed steadier on her feet. At this hour, the Atrium was nearly deserted. No one spared them much of a second look and they made it to the lifts without incident. Ginny maintained surface bickering with Hermione the whole way to keep her distracted. Even going so far as to sing the wrong words to the Beatle’s All My Loving just to annoy Hermione, then insisting that she _honestly_ thought that was how it went.

“You and Harry danced to that song at your wedding,” Hermione pointed out.

Just as the lift announced they’d passed the seventh level, Harry met eyes with Ginny and lifted his brows in question.

Ginny glanced to Hermione, who was still on about the song, then looked back him and nodded surreptitiously.

“I mean, _really_ , Ginny?” Hermione was saying.

“Level six,” the lift voice announced.

Hermione’s expression shuttered.

The lift doors opened onto the sixth level, and they stepped out.

Harry was already five steps down the hallway when he heard Hermione trip. He turned but she was righting herself and reaching down to inspect her shoe.

“Oh, Gin, wait.”

Ginny paused, and Hermione leaned on Ginny’s shoulder as she fumbled around with the clasp. But Harry continued on ahead. He wanted to have a word with Malfoy.

The DMFS Sanctuary was down the hall and around the corner. When he entered, he blinked twice.

“Dennis,” Harry said, surprised.

Of all the people he might’ve expected to be at Malfoy’s side tonight Dennis Creevey was one of the last. Harry hadn’t seen Dennis more than passingly for it must’ve been two years, but he remembered Dennis had been in a bad way back then. Angry. Bitter.

Dennis had taken Colin’s death hard, and had not wanted anything to do with the Boy Who Lived, who was the reason why his brother had sneaked back into Hogwarts and had ever found himself in the way of _Avada Kedavra_. Once, maybe a year after, Harry had run into Dennis in Hogsmeade during one of his Saturday visits with Hermione. Several minutes into talking, Dennis was still giving only terse answers, and Harry had been ready to find an excuse to end the tense conversation.

“Look, I don’t blame you, alright?” Dennis had said suddenly. “I get why you think I would, and – and it just seems like you’re worried I do, but I don’t blame you for – about Colin. It’s just hard, you know? Seeing you is, erm, it’s kinda a reminder, so I – just can’t really. Sorry.”

Harry had understood. It made sense. He’d tried not to approach Dennis after that, offering a wave and a smile when they crossed paths, but not more.

Now, though, Dennis looked happy. His cheeks were no longer gaunt but a healthy pink, and his sand-brown hair looked well-kept. He had his arm wrapped lightly around a witch who Harry vaguely remembered from Hogwarts and thought looked rather like Rowena Ravenclaw.

Dennis smiled gently. “Harry, I don’t know if you remember my girlfriend, Rose Zeller. She was in Hufflepuff.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Harry said.

“Likewise.” Grinning, Rose offered her hand, which Harry took.

Like Ginny, she had a smile that warmed her entire face, drawing out amber undertones to her skin and copper highlights in her dark brown hair. Smiling, her resemblance to Ravenclaw faded entirely.

Realizing he was being rude, Harry turned to Malfoy. “Malfoy.”

“Potter.” Malfoy nodded ever so slightly.

Uncomfortable silence had almost set in when Malfoy asked, “Is Granger not with you?”

“No, no. She’s just behind with Ginny. I was hoping for a word with you before, though.”

“Sure.”

“Right. Er, Hermione’s my best friend and you can probably guess that I’d die before I let anything happen to her. But, you know, she’s – she’s had a rough time and since you’ll, er, be living with her, I thought it’d be important for you to know.” Harry sighed. This was harder than he’d thought it would be. “Just – just you should know that she has difficulties sometimes.”

“I imagine everyone does.”

As Harry cut his eyes toward Malfoy, Dennis snorted.

“Mate,” Dennis said bluntly. “Now’s not the time to be even more of a wanker.”

Malfoy sniffed. “Noted. Potter, you were saying?”

But Harry hadn’t sensed sarcasm off of Malfoy. If he had to bet, he would’ve said Malfoy genuinely meant what he’d said. They all _did_ have difficulties sometimes.

“Right.” Harry shook his head clear. “Hopefully you won’t need to, but if you do, we’ve added you to the wards now so Ginny and I’s Floo is always open. Here’s the address.”

He passed Malfoy the slip of paper with _12 Grimmauld Place_ written on it, enchanted to keep their secret keeper intact. Hermione had no idea that they were giving Malfoy access, but Ginny had agreed with him that it was better to be safe than sorry.

“Fidelius,” Malfoy more said than asked as he unfolded the paper.

Interesting. Without being told outright Harry wouldn’t have been able to discern the charm and certainly not from a piece of paper alone. He appreciated that Malfoy had at least some understanding of the sensitivity of the address—and the risk they were taking in sharing it.

Malfoy’s eyes raked over the address three times, then he held it between two fingers and it went up in flames. It was impressive magic—wandless and wordless—which Hermione would’ve really enjoyed. It certainly made sure it wouldn’t fall into unwanted hands.

* * *

Once Ginny had charmed the broken heel back into place, stubbornly refusing to shorten the shoes by so much as a quarter inch in spite of all Hermione’s pleading, Ginny insisted Hermione hand over her coat, because did she really want to ruin the whole effect? So, Ginny took her rainslicker and beaded bag, and offered Hermione a steadying arm as they made their way down the hall into the DMFS.

The Sanctuary was the third door on the right once they rounded the corner on the left, marked by shiny brass plaque. Ginny pulled open the door, and Hermione stepped inside.

She was not expecting to see Dennis Creevey nor Rose Zeller, who had been one of Hufflepuff's prefects during Hermione’s eighth year if she recalled correctly. But almost all her attention was immediately taken up by Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy was not, as Ginny had predicted, wearing dress robes, instead his fine, black cloak hung open over the smart white button-down and crisp charcoal trousers he wore. At least Hermione had not overdressed. As she’d peripherally noticed in their meeting this morning, he’d filled out since Hogwarts thanks to an ambitious growth spurt. What were once sharp points now marked the strong angles of his jaw, nose, and cheeks. His mother’s Black family looks seemed to have finally caught up, darkening his brows and light scruff enough to make them visible, although his Malfoy white-blond hair was the same as ever. Perhaps because they’d been seated in their meeting that morning, she hadn’t realised how very tall he was but, standing next to him now, five foot three felt horribly short.

She shouldn’t be standing here in the middle of the Ministry waiting to marry this man. It was painfully wrong. Her greeting stuck in her throat, and she hoped that the absurdity of the situation explained her conspicuous silence and stare.

“Hello, Granger,” said Malfoy.

Hermione swallowed. Her mouth was dry. “Malfoy.” She nodded. “Dennis, Rose, it’s good to see you.”

Ginny said her hellos and the six of them faced one another awkwardly until Rose generously asked, “So, Ginny, how’s the Harpies’ season?”

As Rose must have known it would, the question instantly sparked a heated discussion between Dennis and Ginny that Malfoy and Harry eagerly joined in on. Having done her work, Rose eased back into observation. Hermione watched the escalating debate quietly. How was anyone able to find a game comprised of wooden sticks with bunches twigs bundled at one end so interesting? The history of the sport was fascinating, sure—a petri dish of legal anomalies—but the game itself turned dull quickly. After the excitement of _broomsticks_ and autonomous spheres wore off, it was just a lot of tiny figures flying about for hours until one or the other of them caught a functionally invisible bit of metalwork.

A few minutes after half past the officiator arrived, and conversation stuttered to a halt. Hermione recognised the greying, brown-skinned wizard from several of the weddings she’d attended in the past two years.

“Good evening. I’m Umar Abbasi,” the officiator introduced himself. “Mr. Malfoy and Ms. Granger, this way please.”

He gestured Malfoy and Hermione aside towards the front of the room where a trellised arch had been festooned with enchanted myrtle, honeysuckle, and orange blossoms. She was surprised they’d had enough restraint not to put outright lime blossoms and dill sprigs everywhere. In addition to whatever floriculture charms they were using (perhaps _Herbivicus_ ) there must also have been some sort of containment charm because it wasn’t until she was standing all but under the arch that the intense perfume hit her. She nearly gagged.

“I know this is all rather rushed and must be very overwhelming,” Mr. Abbasi said. “I’ll do my best, but please do realise that typically I have time to meet the couple before the ceremony, so we have quite a lot that we need to cover.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione noticed Ginny and Rose drift closer to the altar and take seats in two of the folding chairs. She heard Ginny ask Rose about her work. Making their way more slowly after the witches, it seemed that Dennis and Harry were gamely pushing on about the new racing model.

“That’s fine,” Malfoy replied definitively, yanking Hermione back to the preliminary details.

As Mr. Abbasi rifled through a stack of parchment inside his bag, Malfoy’s eyes cut to her. Clearly, he’d noticed her distraction. Hemione felt herself beginning to blush. This close she had to crane her neck to see him properly.

Mr. Abbassi wanted to know if they preferred the traditional druidic handfasting ceremony over the Christian. Oh, was she not familiar with the typical ritual? Yes, yes, that was the one. Had they prepared vows? No? Then did they prefer the standard wizarding vows or the civil set? Any change to the words?

“If _you_ don’t have to vow to ‘obey’ or ‘respect’ or whatever they’re calling it, then I’m certainly not promising to,” she said.

“It doesn’t have to be one-sided. I’ll vow to respect you or even to obey you if you want.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I thought you just said—”

“I’m not promising to.”

“Not even if I also vow to?”

“You can vow whatever you want, but I’m not going to.”

Malfoy brought his hand up to rub at the bridge of his nose, between his brows. After a few moments, he conceded. “Alright, fine.”

“Not the traditional vows, then?” Mr. Abbasi’s gaze passed between them, checking for agreement.

Hermione nodded.

“Sure, I guess so,” grumbled Malfoy a second after.

“You guess so?” Hermione asked.

Both of Mr. Abbasi’s eyebrows crinkled, and he took the slightest of steps backwards.

Malfoy shrugged and said in a resigned voice, “Whatever you want, Granger.”

“That’s not fair,” she objected. “You can’t just expect me to roll over and stay quiet about what I want.”

His eyes really were a shocking grey, cold and intense.

Malfoy leaned forward. “Have I asked you to?”

“No, but you act like I’m supposed to—”

“I hate to remind you, Granger, but it’s my wedding too.” Well, that stung. “And these traditions _are_ _important_ to my family, you know. Every Malfoy and Black going back hundreds of years has said these vows.”

Well, _that_ certainly wasn’t true.

“Andromeda didn’t,” said Hermione.

“She’s not a Black—she was disowned,” Malfoy said with an air of finality.

“But she hadn’t been yet when she—”

Malfoy interrupted, “Listen. I have no reason not to think that this will be the only wedding I may ever have and, as you said, it’s hardly fair to expect me to not say what I want.”

“It’s not my fault this is happening.”

“Have I said it was?” Malfoy asked, and when she said nothing, went on. “Don’t think that I don’t know that either.”

“Well, what do you want the vows to be?” asked Hermione.

She and Malfoy haggled, and in the end, she won the argument over vows and surrendered the ceremony. He’d get his way, and she’d have to stand through the entirety of the druidic ritual, but she’d only have to agree to the Ministry’s minimum-acceptable marital vows.

It was still ten to eight, when the ceremony was scheduled to begin. Three hours to spare before she’d be arrested.

“If you aren’t expecting anyone else, we can begin now,” Mr. Abbasi offered.

Hermione was about say yes, they might as well, when Malfoy spoke, “My mother should be arriving any minute.”

“Oh,” Hemione said unintentionally. He hadn’t mentioned his mother at all.

“She insisted,” Malfoy explained with a shrug.

It wasn’t much of an explanation, but that hardly mattered. Why hadn’t she even thought to wonder if Narcissa Malfoy would be there? At her only son’s wedding. In the back of Hermione’s mind, she’d assumed that Malfoy wouldn’t want to break the news of a muggleborn fiancée to his parents so abruptly. But, then, the Minister had told her that Malfoy had gotten his letter on his twenty-third birthday. _Years_ ago. How had she forgotten? He’d known for years and, _of course_ his parents knew too.

Even with such short notice about the ceremony, Narcissa Malfoy wouldn’t miss the wedding of her only child. Yet, she hadn’t arrived with her son. He was living in the Manor. Was she? All day Hermione had felt like her mind was five minutes too slow, and again she felt like she’d missed something important.

Strange as it was to marry Malfoy, the thought of Narcissa Malfoy at her wedding was even more distressing. Would she want to speak with Hermione? At least Lucius wouldn’t be there. Surely, that upset Malfoy—not having his father there too. Would he want to know where Hermione’s own parents were? She didn’t know what she’d tell him if he asked.

“Oh,” Hermione said again. What else could she say?

“We’ll wait for Mrs. Malfoy, then,” Mr. Abbasi said encouragingly.

Hermione lingered next to Malfoy beside the flowery altar. Mr. Abbasi moved to introduce himself to – well, to their _guests_ , she supposed. She couldn’t think of a thing to say to Malfoy or to anyone else, so she stood silently and waited. Did Malfoy feel as unsettled as she did?

At five to eight, Harry joined them next to the altar since he was her official witness. Dennis moved towards Malfoy, clasping his shoulder in a half-hug, and murmured something that brought a hint of a smile to Malfoy’s mouth.

Harry took her right hand. She tried to smile at him. The sympathetic look Harry returned said that he didn’t believe her.

Dennis said something else to Malfoy. Malfoy nodded, and Dennis clapped him on the shoulder, then stepped back and sat next to Rose.

Narcissa Malfoy swept in at two to, elegant in a set of long silvery-pink dress robes. She immediately took in the seven of them, ready and waiting in front of the altar.

Crystalline she said, “I hope I haven’t delayed the wedding.”

“Mother, not at all,” Malfoy cleared his throat.

Mr. Abbasi followed. “No, no. It’s good to have you here, Mrs. Malfoy. Please, please,” he waved her forward. “You and Mr. Potter will be the witnesses today.”

Narcissa Malfoy glided towards them.

Mr. Abbasi’s hands continued to flutter, urging Hermione, Harry, and Malfoy three steps over that way and back two and no, if Mr. Potter would step _this_ way, until she stood beneath the arch facing Malfoy, gasping through the heavy musk of honeysuckle and orange blossom. Malfoy stood in front of her, Harry on her right, and Mr. Abbasi stood to her left so he could face out towards Ginny, Rose, and Dennis.

“Draco, darling,” Narcissa Malfoy reached them and greeted her son with a proper but sincere hug that he firmly returned.

As she stepped back and looked up, her arresting blue eyes caught Hermione’s.

“Ms. Granger,” Mrs. Malfoy nodded, “and Mr. Potter, good to see you again.”

Hermione’s reply died in her throat.

Turning, Narcissa Malfoy continued, “It’s a pleasure to see you, Mrs. Potter.”

“Mrs. Malfoy,” Ginny acknowledged without too much irony in her voice.

“Dennis, Rose, you both look well.”

“And you, Narcissa,” Rose said, apparently genuinely.

“Thank you.”

But, as Narcissa turned away, Rose reached for Dennis’s hand, and he shot her a grateful look. Did Mrs. Malfoy not like that her son’s friend was muggleborn, then? With a halfblood girlfriend to boot?

Narcissa Malfoy laid a delicately gloved hand on Malfoy’s shoulder, and Malfoy bent down so to allow his mother to whisper into his ear. Malfoy nodded, and Mrs. Malfoy took a step back to stand beside her son, as his witness. Seeing the two next to each other, the resemblance was striking. They shared a haughty aristocracy that Hermione would never be able to achieve—all the cosmetic potions in the world or not.

Narcissa Malfoy looked from Hermione to Harry to Mr. Abbasi. “Please, don’t wait on my account.”

Malfoy turned to Hermione. “Shall we?” he asked.

“Er, sure.”

Taking that as his cue, Mr. Abbasi, raised his wand and began, “We are gathered here today to seal the union of two souls in magical matrimony.”

As per their negotiations, almost the entirety of the traditional wizarding ceremony would be conducted, but they would only exchange the minimum vows that the Ministry deemed acceptable. Mr. Abbasi said this all briefly, likely for the benefit of Mrs. Malfoy, before starting the ceremony.

Mr. Abbasi recited the ancient blessings, alternating between Old Irish and English as he translated but Hermione noticed lines and passages here and there where he slipped into Welsh and Gaelic, even Breton once. They were all lovely words that said nothing about Malfoy or her. Malfoy seemed rapt, but Hermione could not have been less interested. None of it mattered anyway. Their marriage was an unlucky consequence of legislation, hardly the loving promise that Mr. Abbasi was going on about.

Maybe five or six times throughout Mr. Abbasi stopped and traced a glowing rune mid-air with his wand. Halfway through the ceremony he called upon Harry and Mrs. Malfoy as witnesses, asking for their blessings. Hermione listened to Harry as he stumbled over the unfamiliar Irish and Gaelic consonants; she’d always been unable to ignore his voice. Harry glanced at her every few seconds, which made the tip of her nose tingle, warning of welling tears. Oh, sweet, sweet Harry who was never not there for her. He was trying so hard to get it right for her sake.

But, when Harry was done and Mr. Abbasi started up again, the dull anger washed over her once more, lapping at ankles, shins, hips: up and up. It was hard not to think about how Mr. Abbasi was just repeating other people’s words—people who had never met or heard of or cared about either Hermione or Malfoy. Even the bits of his speech that were supposedly specific to them, were clearly memorized: the same standard tripe that he said to every couple.

Hermione wondered why Malfoy had insisted on the ceremony. Given what he’d said about the vows, it seemed to be an issue of family tradition. She knew pureblood families had deep, ingrained customs, but had somehow not expected Malfoy to be so adamant. The wedding itself was hardly old-fashioned: two witnesses and three guests sitting on folding chairs in an over-decorated conference room. Not to mention how surprisingly reasonable he’d been that morning. Hermione wondered if his adamance had been in any part for his mother’s benefit, or if he clung to traditional customs himself.

At last Mr. Abbasi asked them to clasp hands to say their vows. Using an incantation that was a close cousin to the Unbreakable Vow, he wound gleaming cords of light around Malfoy and Hermione’s hands.

“Do you, Draco Lucius Malfoy, take Hermione Jean Granger to be your wedded wife, to join with her as wizard and witch from this day forward?”

Malfoy’s eyes darted to hers for the briefest of instants, his expression indecipherable, then away again.

Flatly he said, “I do.”

With his words, their incandescent bonds tightened.

Mr. Abbasi continued, “And do you, Hermione Jean Granger, take Draco Lucius Malfoy to be your wedded husband, to join with him as witch and wizard from this day forward?”

She’d been so focused before on Malfoy that she hadn’t noticed the runes carved into the Sanctuary’s moulding. It was tacky: _Love_ , _Forever_ , _Two_. There was no way of knowing what magic such a sloppy collection of runes might hold, but Hermione very much doubted that it was anything close to what the DMFS was intending.

Mr. Abbasi cleared his throat. “Do—”

“I do.”

Again, the glowing filaments tightened. Malfoy’s palm sweated slightly. Hers was worse.

“Ah, good. Right.” Mr. Abbasi resumed his lofty tone, “Then I declare you bonded for life.”

Hermione had witnessed this spell several times before, by now. The first time, at Bill and Fleur’s wedding it had struck her as beautiful. She’d been crying so much at Harry and Ginny’s that it had all blurred together and seemed just like beautiful sunlight. But when the silver shower of light cascaded over her, all she wanted to do was flinch away. The electric tingles from the sparks and stars felt like cinders burning her skin.

Malfoy seemed as eager to get away as she, for as soon as the pull of magic around them subsided he released her hand and stepped back.

“Granger,” he said with a nod.

“Malfoy.” Hermione shifted uncomfortably. “Er, I suppose you’ll want to leave soon … right, erm, just let me say goodbye to Ginny and Harry.”

He scanned quickly over her. “Do you need to get anything to bring?”

“Ginny’s got my bag.”

“Right. In that case, my mother is returning to France tonight and I need to accompany her to the Portkey Office. I’ll meet you in the Atrium, then?”

The assurance of his tone startled her. “Alright.”

With a nod, Malfoy retreated to the cluster Dennis and Rose had formed, just a few feet from his mother.

“Thank you,” Hermione said to Mr. Abbasi.

“Of course. I wish you both all the best,” he said kindly, and went back to gathering his papers.

“Everything alright?” Harry asked.

“Fine,” she said.

Should she say goodbye to Mrs. Malfoy? Her mother-in-law now, Hermione supposed. But she didn’t really want to, so she turned to Harry.

“Let’s go.”

She was a married woman now, which felt odd because she felt almost the same as she had an hour before. Just as jittery. Just as numb. Only, her skin hummed with magic. As the shower had landed upon her and Malfoy, their handfasting ties had fallen away, and now Hermione examined her hand. She could still feel the hot, not-quite-burning pressure on her skin, but there appeared to be no mark on her skin.

She didn’t really hear Harry and Ginny until they all stepped into the Atrium. Apologizing that she couldn’t stay, Ginny said she’d promised to pick up James so she could put him to bed herself. And though Harry offered to stay, Hermione waved him off. He should go home with his wife. Reluctantly, they went.

Hermione waited in the Atrium for twenty minutes after Harry and Ginny had flooed to the Burrow to retrieve James. Five minutes in Rose and Dennis had passed through, bidding her goodnight as they vanished into the fireplace. She was just considering searching for him, when Malfoy emerged from a golden lift alone and strode briskly across the empty room, his steps echoing.

“My apologies, Mother insisted,” he said simply, and offered no more explanation.

Words stuck in Hermione’s throat, so she merely nodded.

“After you then?” he asked.

She nodded and gathered a handful of Floo powder from the receptacle.

Flinging it, she stepped into the brightly green flames. “Malfoy Manor!”

Fire engulfed her, surrounding her with flashes of wizarding kitchens. When the green and the rushing glimpses had subsided, the drawing room came into focus.

* * *

“Potter! POTTER!” The shout rattled through Grimmauld Place.

Gin turned to him bewildered, toothbrush half in her mouth. “Is that—”

“POTTER!”

Just as it clicked into place in Harry’s mind too.

“Malfoy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed—or didn't—any and all reviews are very much welcome and appreciated. I really love hearing your feedback, constructive criticism, or rambling thoughts and reactions. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> A note about the flowers: Myrtle symbolizes love, joy, and fidelity and also is a traditional flower to have at weddings. Honeysuckle represents the bonds of love and devoted affection; orange blossoms signify marriage, eternal love, and fruitfulness. These all seemed in line with the heavy-handedness of the DMFS. The other flowers Hermione references are dill, which represents lust, and lime blossoms, which supposedly symbolize conjugal love and fornication (as well as wedded love and matrimony).
> 
> P.S. Chapter Six: Over the Threshold will be up this coming weekend. It’s Draco’s turn again.  
> P.P.S. I am looking for an alpha/beta-reader. If anyone is interested, please let me know.


	6. Over the Threshold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is much later than I’d said, but I needed to take some time away to process what is happening around the world. Also, the pressure of weekly update schedule is somewhat overwhelming, so I will be switching to a schedule of every third week (at least for the time being). Thanks for your patience!  
> As a small bonus, I’ve added more to earlier chapters—nothing plot-significant, but a few new paragraphs here and there, (especially more from Draco’s perspective in chapter four).  
> Anyway, I hope chapter six is worth the wait, and you enjoy the absolute behemoth of a chapter that it has become.  
> Thank you for all your lovely reviews! And thanks to FloraMacDonald for her support!  
> I hope you are healthy, safe, and well.  
> Now, please enjoy!  
> -AFOR (July 15, 2020)

_Tuesday, 11 January 2005_

Potter!” Draco bellowed. “POTTER!”

Through the floo he could only see the table legs and flagstones of an old kitchen. But no sign of Potter.

“POTTER!”

With a _pop!_ Potter’s feet appeared in his line of vision.

“What—”

“Finally,” Draco said. “Potter, you’ve got to come. I don’t know what happened. As soon as we got here, she just – and she won’t snap out of it.”

Draco didn’t know how to describe it. Granger had flooed ahead of him, and when he’d arrived at the Manor, she’d already been like that: curled in on herself, eyes unfocused as tears ran down her cheeks. When he’d said her name, she had not responded—had not even reacted. It was as though she hadn’t heard him. He’d cast every diagnostic spell he could think of in case she’d brushed against some cursed heirloom but, no. Nothing. He could find nothing wrong with her, yet she was catatonic.

“Alright,” Potter said. “I’ll come through.”

The feet shuffled closer, and Draco scrambled out of the way, managing to withdraw his head from the flames and push up into a half crouch before the fire roared green.

Then, Potter was in his drawing room. Almost instantly he’d spotted Granger and was lunging forward to kneel beside her.

“It’s not real,” murmured Potter. “It’s not real, okay? Hermione, you’re here with me. It’s not real. Take a deep breath and just focus on – on ….” Potter trailed off as he looked about and seemed to realise which room they were in. “Oh.”

Potter’s eyes completed several circuits of the room and Draco followed with him. Nearly untouched since the end of the war, the drawing room was almost the same as when Potter and Granger had last been here. The crystal chandelier Dobby had destroyed had been mended and now hung glowing with candles, virtually indistinguishable from its twin. Malfoy family portraits lined the room and only if Draco looked closely could he see where stray curses had scattered singe marks across the walls. The drawing room furniture was arranged as it had been since he was a child: gathered around a tea table handsome French armchairs faced the fire, and above the carved marble mantlepiece the gold-trimmed mirror reflected the authentic Renaissance pipe organ against the opposite wall. But even if furniture was no longer haphazardly shoved against the walls, nicks and scuffs in the arms and legs remained. The long table that had overtaken the room during the Dark Lord’s stay was long gone—Mother hadn’t hesitated to command the elves to burn it, along with half of the Manor’s centuries-old Turkish carpets. Draco knew that beneath the new ones the stone still bore rusty stains.

Usually, Draco flooed directly to and from the north wing; and his few visitors knew to arrive at his rooms directly. Though he avoided the drawing room meticulously, it’d been so long since he’d stepped foot in here that he hadn’t thought twice when Granger called out “Malfoy Manor!” He’d followed her lead, almost assuming he would wind up in the front hall or kitchens.

Potter had drawn his eyes away from the room and was again wholly focused on Granger. “Hermione, remember it’s not real—you’re okay. Deep breaths, right?”

Slowly, Draco stood and stepped closer.

Granger had her knees hugged tightly to her chest. Potter’s hands reached out as through he wanted to hug her, but he held back. His hands went to her coat lying next to her and drew a beaded, purple bag from its pocket.

Fumbling with the clasp, Potter said, “It’s not really happening, remember? It’s not real. Focus on – oh, fuck it.” Having little success with the bag, Potter turned to him and said, “Malfoy, open the door. I need to get her out of here.”

Draco hurried across the room, keeping an eye on Potter and Granger as he went.

Potter gently explained to Granger, “Hermione keep taking deep breaths, I’m just moving you into a different room, alright?”

Granger’s empty, teary gaze was impassive.

_“Wingardium leviosa.”_

Carefully, Potter levitated Granger towards the door. Draco stepped back as they neared, and Potter and a floating Granger passed. He followed them, pulling the door firmly shut behind him.

As though she were glass, Potter lowered Granger onto the carpet and dropped to his knees next to her, resuming his reassurances the moment she was safely down.

“It’s just a memory. You’re here with me now, Hermione.” As Potter spoke, his hands went to her bag. “Can you just focus on … er – the carpet, alright?” Undoing the clasp, he jabbed his wand inside. “ _Accio_ calming draught.”

The little vial flew into Potter’s hand.

Unstoppering the potion, Potter held it out to Granger. “Hermione, drink this, okay?”

When she made no motion to take it, he slowly brought it to her slightly parted lips, tilting it to dribble a little into her mouth. Not immediately but eventually Granger did swallow, after Potter had re-stoppered the vial, returned it to her bag, and gone back to offering reassurances.

“Is that—”

“Wasn’t she the one who—”

Draco only caught whispered phrases.

“—yes, yes, she’s the mudblood one—

“—think that’s Potter—”

The painted Malfoys from the drawing room had flocked into the portraits in the hall, and now all the ancestors along the walls were crowding into the nearest frames, jostling for the best vantage, whispering among themselves.

“—when _I_ was Lord Malfoy no mudblood ever dared—”

“Yes, yes, Septimus. You’ve _said_.”

“Well, _they_ _didn’t_ , Mathilda. The mudbloods knew better than to—”

Checking Potter was still concentrated upon Granger, Draco crossed to Septimus Malfoy’s monstrous gilded frame, inside of which the imperious wizard was arguing with some great aunt twice removed as he elbowed back another.

“Septimus,” Draco said lowly. “Thought I’d let you know first. Any portrait I can see that isn’t empty in the next minute _will be burnt_.”

Septimus scoffed, “You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I?”

Septimus looked at him. Septimus wavered.

Then, cousins and uncles and aunts began to scatter. Septimus threw a nasty glance at Draco and hurried after the others, pushing relatives out of his way.

Like the snap of a whip the threat rippled through the frames, and quiet returned to the hall as Malfoy ancestors fled for the distant walls of the Manor. Only Potter’s murmur sounded now.

Potter was still being careful not to touch Granger, although he clearly itched to hug her. Draco had always dismissed the tabloid rubbish about Potter and Granger. Despite Skeeter’s obsession, Potter seemed very much in love with his wife. Nevertheless, the way Potter naturally angled, leaning towards her was an unusually close gesture for mere friendship. In all his years at Hogwarts, jealously observing Potter at a distance, he’d never seen them display the utter devotion he saw between them now. And yet, if asked, he’d have bet it was platonic.

“Remember just deep breaths and focus on the carpet, alright? It’s not real.”

“Harry, you can stop now.”

It was the first thing Granger had said in half an hour—since the Atrium.

“Hermione!” Relief poured into Potter’s voice. “Mione, how are you feeling?”

“Awful,” she said shakily.

“Right, sorry.” Potter went sheepish. “Of course – of course you are.”

Granger adjusted herself, sitting up taller, as Potter fretted. She had the restless, searching stare of someone whose mind was wholly overwhelmed. Scanning the hall, her eyes caught on the drawing room door and she seemed to tense, then quickly swivelled back to Potter.

“Sorry, what did you say?” she asked.

“Are you sure you’re not thirsty?” repeated Potter.

“Yeah.”

“‘Yeah’ you’re sure or ‘yeah’ you’re thirsty?”

“Harry.” Her voice was firmer.

“Sorry. Sorry, er, is there – er,” with an audible breath, Potter forced calm into his voice. “How are you feeling?”

Appreciation flickered across Granger’s face as she looked at Potter. “Just really, really tired.”

“Do you want me to take you home?”

The look she levelled at Potter and slight twinge of her brow made words unnecessary.

“Hermione,” Potter groaned, “you’re not actually thinking of – you’ve got to go back to your flat.”

She blinked. “I’ve got to stay at – ah, at the – er, you know.”

“Hermione—”

“Harry, I _can’t_.”

Catching Draco’s eye meaningfully, Potter said, “Hermione, I – I _really_ think you should go back to your flat tonight.”

“I’m not allowed.”

“Just tonight,” Potter reassured her. “They won’t check on you tonight.”

“They might.”

“They’re probably celebrating right now,” argued Potter with another quick, intense glance to Draco.

Draco chimed in, “Potter’s right.”

“See?” Potter said. “You and Malfoy can go to your flat tonight and can figure things out tomorrow.”

“But—”

“If anyone shows up you can explain what happened, and it’s not like you and Malfoy would be trying to get out of living together—you’d just be at your flat instead of here.”

Potter’s glances hadn’t done anything to warn Draco that he’d be going with Granger, but he couldn’t very well argue now. There was no question that Potter was right—Granger couldn’t spend the night here. If he had to go so that she would, then so be it.

Granger dragged her eyes from Potter to him and then back.

“How – how sure are you they won’t come tonight?”

A pleased smile pushed onto Potter’s face. “I’d bet you anything they’re already getting absolutely pissed.”

She knew as well as Potter did that she’d as good as agreed.

“Alright.”

Potter helped her up and into her coat and held her bag as she did up her buttons. Draco adjusted his cloak to guard more securely against the cold. Potter stood barefoot wearing only a white t-shirt and thin flannel pyjama bottoms, but neither Granger, concentrating on her buttons, nor Potter, concentrating on Granger, seemed to have noticed any issue. They didn’t _need_ to brave the cold—Draco would only have to call, and the elves could apparate them directly to Granger’s flat without them needing to cross the Manor’s ward line. But there was no telling how Granger would react. Probably easiest not to. So, cold it would be.

“Er, Potter?”

“Yeah?”

 _“Oh!”_ Granger, who’d looked up too, seemed to finally actually look at Potter. “Harry, you’re barefoot. You can’t go like this. I – I’m so sorry, Ginny must be—”

“Ginny’s fine—she knows. We’ll get you back to your flat and then I’ll go home, and Ginny will understand. Relax, okay?”

Granger twitched in what might have been a nod as she unclasped her bag. “Well – I know I’ve got it somewhere here.”

Her arm vanished into the bag and twisted about as she rummaged inside. After half a minute she withdrew, pulling out a jumper and a pair of trainers that she handed to Potter, who quickly pulled them on. Obviously an extension charm, and—knowing Granger—it was probably flawlessly cast. Draco had a moleskin pouch, which was particularly high quality, that could hold tenfold its size, but not to the point that there was excess space to waste on someone else’s spare trainers. _Of course_ the charm was flawless—it _was_ Hermione Granger.

Laces knotted, Potter straightened.

“Ready, then?” he asked Granger, despite the fact that she’d been waiting for him.

Taking her arm in his, Potter gently guided Granger forward. The Manor’s front doors swung open as the mismatched pair approached, and Draco followed them down the stairs and onto the long drive. Gravel crunched underfoot and Byrdie’s precisely-clipped, prized yew hedges climbed on either side, though none of Father’s peacocks could be spotted strutting overhead—all likely asleep in some olive tree in the heated garden. The night was peaceful: the Manor the way Draco had grown up with it. Despite the inconvenience, Draco had always like the long drive. It insulated the Manor from the surrounding countryside, already isolated as it was. Guarded behind the gates and hedges, he was protected from the pitchforks and torches of Mother’s folktales.

Ahead, Potter and Granger had stopped before the gates. Confused, Potter turned to Draco.

“Erm,” Potter said. “Have we got do to something—”

“Blood wards,” Draco interrupted. “Malfoy heir and all.”

“Right.”

Draco stepped around Potter and touched his hand to the wrought iron. Instantly, the metal curled away, leaving open an eight-foot arch trimmed in wrought vines. He let Potter and Granger pass first, then followed them out onto the quiet, Wiltshire country lane.

Potter quietly said something into Granger’s ear. After a beat she shook her head.

Potter turned to him. “I’ll take Hermione by side-along first then come back for you.”

Had Granger not looked so pale, he’d have argued. Like she’d done earlier—was it only that morning?—Granger seemed to be retreating into herself. When she had recovered from her catatonia, she had seemed cognizant. Now, she looked fragile, distracted.

Draco nodded.

Potter, grasping Granger by the arm, turned on the spot. _Crack!_

And Draco was alone. Beside the Manor’s tall gates and manicured hedges, the dimpled packed earth and surrounding short winter-worn, half-wild hedgerows looked out of place. Like this, the Manor loomed, a disproportionate fortress amidst gentle countryside.

A minute later with another _crack!_ Potter materialized.

“You set?”

“Yes.”

Potter offered his arm and Draco took it.

It was incredibly strange to grab hold of the Boy Who Lived’s arm and let Potter drag him through the squeeze and press of apparition.

Emerging into a London fog that was half rain, Potter and he landed on slick pavement beside Granger. They were in a dark, deserted alley behind a skip that conveniently shielded them from the view of any passing muggles, although being January there were fewer about. Over the several blocks to Granger’s flat Draco must have seen hardly five people before Potter nodded to a black door at the top of three stairs.

Despite it being Granger’s building, Potter led with Granger a step behind and Draco following her. They climbed the stairs and waited on the stoop as Potter unlocked the door. It seemed a rather quiet neighbourhood—old terraced houses converted into more economical flats. Granger’s was among the less well-kept of them with cracked steps, chipping paint on both the rail and the door, and a brass number twenty-eight that hung slightly askew.

Potter held the door to let Granger and Draco in. Inside they stood into a cramped landing at the base of a narrow stairwell, dripping on the old, scuffed black tile. Potter closed the door and, surreptitiously checking no muggles were around, spelled Granger and himself dry.

“Can I?”

Draco nodded.

With a wave of Potter’s wand, the damp vanished.

Granger’s flat was on the second storey, on the left. Again, Potter unlocked her door. He held it open for Granger but extended it to Draco so he could slip in after Granger and guide her—Draco assumed—to bed. They disappeared into the dark flat.

Draco closed the door and waited awkwardly in the entryway. He’d never liked being in other people’s homes. Compared to the Manor, everywhere else felt cramped and obscenely intimate. Only a foot inside of her flat and he was _feet_ from her room, not storeys. If he went further in, he was as near to her bedroom as his private rooms were to his bedroom at the Manor, and only his parents and closest friends ever stepped foot inside of those. Despite being wed to her, entering her living room felt invasive.

Standing there in the darkness felt odder still. From down the hall Draco could hear the murmur of them speaking. He edged forward into her living room. The darkness was now decidedly odd, so he turned on a single lamp and settled on standing, not sitting, while he waited for Potter.

Potter returned five minutes later.

“I guess,” he looked about and shrugged, “just, er – take the couch?”

Draco nodded.

If he leaned against one of the armrests the sofa should be long enough for him, and the blanket draped over its back wouldn’t need more than a simple heating charm to keep him warm.

“Alright, then. That’s sorted. I think there’s firewhisky somewhere,” Potter said.

Draco followed to where he assumed Granger’s kitchen was. Streetlights through the window illuminated the outlines of the fridge and oven well enough that Potter didn’t bother with the switch. Bright light briefly lit Potter’s face. Then, the fridge door shut, and Potter handed him a cold bottle.

“Sorry, it’s only butterbeer.”

They drank in silence.

When he’d downed half of his, Draco asked the question that had been bothering him since the Ministry.

“So, when you said she’s got difficulties?”

“Yeah,” Potter sighed heavily.

“This is what you meant, then?” asked Draco.

Though it was hard to tell in the dim light, he thought Potter nodded. Yet, Potter chose his words carefully, “In part.”

What was he not saying? Granger had always appeared so put together that Draco had not thought that something might be deeply the matter with the witch.

“Does this happen often?”

“No, thank God. It’s worse when she’s stressed – easier for something to set her off. Otherwise, she’s alright for the most part.”

“But she’s got other, er, _difficulties?_ ”

Draco got his answer from the way Potter held his gaze intently, even before Potter responded. “Look, I don’t really feel comfortable telling you about Hermione’s business.”

* * *

_Wednesday, 12 January 2005_

Screaming woke him. Draco stumbled up from the sofa, groping in the darkness for his wand somewhere nearby. On the table, wasn’t it? His fingers found the familiar wood and he whispered _lumos_ , heading for Granger’s room. The wandlight helped with the unfamiliar shapes lying in wait, but he still stubbed a toe and knocked his knee. Grogginess melted off him with each step. By the time he reached Granger’s door he was wide awake.

It was unlocked and he pushed it open.

Only barely visible in the darkness, Granger writhed under her sheets.

“Granger?” he whispered.

She screamed at something that wasn’t in the room.

“Granger?”

Draco took another step inside. She continued to scream. Step by step, he reached her bed. She tossed and turned, pleading and howling. He hated how familiar her screams were.

“Granger?” Tentatively, he touched one hand to her shoulder. “Granger? Hermione?”

At his touch, she jolted. He recoiled.

Granger stilled as she woke, screams stuttering to gasps. Her wide, teary eyes seized on the ceiling and she seemed to use the cracked plaster to focus, taking several deep breaths. Draco stood frozen, not daring to move and startle her, listening only to her concentrated sighs.

After half a minute, when she made to sit up, he shifted. Turning towards the noise, she stiffened. Her eyes went wide again, frightened, and it took her several swallows before she could release the breath she was holding. Even then, she was clearly working hard to keep her breathing measured.

Horror began to crawl up Draco’s spine. No, it wasn’t the time.

He cleared his throat. “I didn’t, ah, mean to intrude. I just thought – I was worried something had happened.”

Granger’s gaze sank away from him, down towards her hands. She nodded.

As he stood there, unsure if he should leave, stay, or do something else entirely more comforting, she sniffled. Her breath shuddered, snagged, and went ragged with fighting back tears.

Gingerly Draco sat beside her because it seemed the only thing to do. So as to not risk upsetting her any further, he kept his hands at his side and simply stayed. Even if Granger didn’t want him there, she hadn’t said so, and he couldn’t very well leave her without trying to help, to – well, he didn’t know what.

He’d never been particularly skilled with reassuring words. Not like Blaise, who could talk his way into or out of anything and, at that, could talk anyone into or out of anything. Less than a day after Theo’s father had been arrested, Blaise had managed to charm laughter out of Theo. The apple never fell far from the tree, after all. But neither kind words nor sympathy came easily to Draco. Although they loved him dearly, Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy were not gifted caregivers: they translated affection into restrained embraces and bridled words.

Granger struggled for several minutes before she gave herself over to the tears but, once she had, she only cried in earnest for a minute or two.

Draco did not know what to say. Dozens of questions raced through his mind. Was she okay? What had happened? Was it because of the Manor, or did she have nightmares often? Exactly how messed up was she? The war had ravaged all of them, but Granger seemed affected, as if it had ended only months before. And horror was now perched on his shoulder, steadily digging its talons in deeper and deeper. What should he do?

It was half past three in the morning but sod it.

“Would you like some tea?” asked Draco.

Granger looked up. “Er, yes, please.”

Her hands went to rub at her eyes, then to her hair, smoothing the mane back away from her face, and that was what seemed to finally bring her back.

“Oh, I’m not thinking straight,” she said. “You don’t know where anything is.”

 _That_ was what she was concerned about?

Granger untangled herself from her sheets and led the way down the dark hall to her modest kitchen. She flipped the switch, bathing the kitchen in soft light and hard shadows. Draco stood beside the small table, uncertain if he should sit, as she put the kettle on and retrieved cups from the cupboard. There was Earl Grey or camomile as well as sugar, milk, and cream, and what would he like? When she pulled the cream from her fridge, it was hard not to notice how bare the shelves were. Watching her flit about, he became keenly aware of how thin the camisole she wore with her pyjamas was.

She fixed them two cups, set them on the table, and finally sat. He took the other chair. Her mind was elsewhere, and Draco’s thoughts drifted as well. He turned over everything, over and over again, that had happened since they’d left the Ministry. Potter had thought something might happen or else he wouldn’t have given him the address. Potter known _immediately_ what to do. It wasn’t uncommon, then.

Granger cradled her tea in both hands with white knuckles—desperately drawing warmth from the ceramic cup.

Four o’clock had come and gone, dawn still several hours off. They’d been sitting in silence long enough now for Draco to be fully aware of the weight of horror as it rested on his shoulders. He couldn’t keep his curiosity quiet any longer.

“How often?”

“What?” Granger pulled her eyes away from her tea.

“How often am I in them?” he asked.

She blinked, and her face folded in on itself. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

But he’d seen it. He’d seen how she had looked at him, afraid that he was some new twist to the nightmare. And now, even as she avoided his eyes, he again saw the fear in hers. Not fear of him, but fear of the dreams.

“Like hell you don’t,” he insisted. “Granger, when you saw me you thought you were still in the nightmare. So, how often am I in them?”

She dropped her gaze to her churning fingers.

He waited. Her thumbs rubbed across her palms and over her knuckles.

“Often enough,” she said.

“Every night?”

When he’d been having panic attacks anywhere close to as bad as the episode she’d had last night, nightmares were still a near-nightly visitor. He needed to know whether it was the same for her. And, more urgently, whether he was part of that torment most nights.

Wordlessly she shook her head, still not lifting her eyes from her hands.

“Every week?”

A pause. Then, she nodded. “At least once. Sometimes more. But that’s only sometimes.”

Draco reeled. He couldn’t be married to a woman for whom his very being called back sadistic torture. It was beyond cruel. Draco felt sick. After everything he’d done since the war to distance himself from his past, here he was again. A Death Eater in his wife’s eyes. A wife he didn’t even want. A wife who most vehemently didn’t want him. He’d never be able to escape. Forever he’d be hurting people he didn’t mean to. It wasn’t fair to her. It wasn’t fair to him. He’d given up on being a _good_ person years ago, but now the Ministry had stolen his chance at decency too.

He’d come to terms with the fact that it was _her_. The fact that he had to marry a witch who knew exactly how terrible he had been. He’d come to terms with the fact that who he’d been had hurt her more times than he could remember.

He had not come to terms with the fact that who he was _now_ would still hurt her.

“Shit. _Shit._ Granger, if I’d known – if you’d told me I could’ve—”

“What? You could’ve _what?_ ” she snapped. “I did everything, it wouldn’t have made a difference.”

“If they knew what happened, they wouldn’t have made you – you could’ve at least gotten someone else.”

Granger only shook her head. “It wouldn’t have made any difference.”

“You don’t know tha—”

“Actually, I do,” she interrupted. “You know, I _am_ somewhat familiar with how the Ministry handles these things.”

Was she so willing to accept this? There _had_ to be something they could do. He couldn’t live like this—live with her. Didn’t she want to have someone else? To not go through the unhappiness he was sure to cause her? Did she not care enough to spare him that guilt? It had become so heavy now, compacting his lungs.

“So, that’s it?” he managed.

“What do you want me to do?” she demanded, setting down her cup with a clatter. “Unlike _you_ , I didn’t even know it was you until yesterday. It’s not like I had time to put together an appeal, or that they even would’ve listened to me.”

So, she knew that he’d known for years and was angry that he hadn’t told her. It hurt. It hurt. He needed it off him. It had taken him until nearly eighteen to understand how heavy guilt could be, but the years had taught him well. This was different: it was everything on the head of a pin. There had to be a way she could get away from him.

“Does it not matter to you?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“You have nightmares, what, every night? You were in the Manor for a – _minute_ , maybe? And you literally started to relive the – er, what happened. And what? You’ve given up now? You’re not even going to try do something about it?”

Granger frowned at him, then shook her head. “You know what, I’m actually rather knackered.”

She stood up.

He opened his mouth to argue but had the good sense to shut it again.

“Good night,” he said instead.

Granger turned into the hall without saying it back.

She’d left her cup, teabag and puddle at the bottom. Draco finished his own tea, tossed their dregs down the drain and the bags into the bin, and spelled both cups clean before replacing them in the cupboard. There were sparse few dishes inside. A few glass bowls and plates sat on the lower shelf, on the next on up sat glasses, teacups, and two souvenir coffee mugs—one that said _World’s Best Dad_ and the other from somewhere in France.

He filled a glass from the tap, swallowed down half, and returned to his makeshift bed on her sofa to do his best to find sleep again. The soft melancholy that always came with being in a stranger’s home had settled into his skin again. The tap water didn’t taste quite right. The air smelled strangely spicy—cinnamon, maybe—and too dusty, like the Hogwarts library.

Sleep evaded him. Thoughts raced without real words to the sentences or questions. Just the insistent awareness that he didn’t know, that there was nothing to be done—nothing he could do—about it. Granger was right: the Wizengamot would not change its mind. There was no getting around it.

It’d been a struggle for years since the war—since sixth year, really—with insomnia. The nightmares had started fifth, but not until Father’s imprisonment had Draco begun to go without sleep to avoid them. Taking the Mark had only made things worse. He’d gone so far as to nick dreamless sleep from Severus’s stores, which had only made his godfather angrier with him. For the rest of the year, though, as well as the next, a fresh bottle would appear somewhere, in his schoolbag or trunk or beneath his pillow, each time the previous one ran out. It was among the many things he regretted not thanking Severus for.

Sixteen through nineteen, Draco had survived on dreamless sleep and occlumency. Without the potion, he’d have fallen seriously ill sixth year—the scant few hours of sleep he was managing further broken apart by anxious dreams. He had already been using rudimentary occlumency to cope with stress, but Severus’s lessons the summer before seventh year had turned him into a skilled occlumens. Compartmentalisation, like neat rows of post office boxes, had kept him sane under the Carrows’ Hogwarts.

But memories and fear had stayed with Draco following the war. The last of Severus’s dreamless sleep had been gone in a week, and then the nightmares had reared up: undiminished and more vicious than before. He’d learned to brew dreamless sleep himself during his return eighth year. It hadn’t been Severus’s flawless formula, though—it had taken another five years to even approximate that—and the nightmares had run him ragged. Now, Draco had almost replicated Severus’s formula, but he still hadn’t managed to eliminate its addictiveness. So, he could only use it sparingly. Truth be told, he didn’t know if Severus’s formula had even eliminated the addictiveness—at the time, he hadn’t cared nor noticed.

* * *

When Granger’s screams startled Draco three hours later, he shook her awake and did not comment at her whimper when she caught sight of him. He simply sat beside her. Was this what it would be? Him reduced to the terror incarnate of her nightmares?

He had not been able to sleep, and all his thinking had done was leave him frustrated and lonely, with a building headache.

“I haven’t been shopping lately,” Granger said, “but there’s a nice café just a few blocks over – I mean, if – if you’re hungry.”

Lately? Draco doubted she’d been shopping properly—for anything more than a carton of milk here, a loaf of bread there—in at least a month.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’m – I am.”

“Alright, then.” She glanced about. “Er, I’ll just get dressed first and then ….”

“Yes. Right.”

Draco stepped out and used the loo first so he wouldn’t disrupt her routine. When he finished, the cold water and several freshening charms had done nothing to make him forget that he was still in his clothes from yesterday. It’d do until he could return to the Manor, though.

As Draco waited on Granger, he peered around her flat. In the daylight, he could see how small the apartment was. The flat’s front door opened into her living room, which was only half-shielded from view by the wall of the hallway extending to the right, down which was her cramped bedroom and the loo. Left of the front door was the kitchen, with two doorless openings carved out, leaving a middle section of wall separating it from the living room.

Draco removed the heating charm, refolded the blanket, and draped in over the sofa. The living room was very muggle: cushy sofa, television, electric lamps. She hadn’t made it terribly personalised, but the wall facing the door to the kitchen had a built-in bookcase that was almost entirely filled.

Moving closer to look, it became clear Granger had divided her collection between muggle literature on the left and wizarding on the right. Within each, the books were ordered alphabetically. She had a number of unusual titles, notably several on the Dark Arts that Draco wouldn’t have expected of her. Between the books she had dedicated an entire shelf, running the length of the wall, to an assortment of framed muggle and magical photographs.

In one of the unmoving pictures a teenaged Granger smiled out from between two people who could only be her parents. Apparently, Granger had inherited her hair and her smile from her father but looked otherwise very like her mother. And the resemblance between mother and daughter was even more striking in the picture that showed her parents on their wedding day. The most recent picture of the Grangers was of Granger and her mother stringing tinsel onto a Christmas tree. Granger in the picture did not have a scar on her arm, which meant the photograph had been taken sixth year or earlier.

Only a few of the more than twenty pictures were of the Grangers, though. The rest by and large showed Granger, Potter, and Weasley together, although Ginny Potter, Loony Lovegood, Longbottom, and the other Weasleys were frequent additions. In a very strange photograph, Granger sat between Potter, Professor Lupin, and _Sirius Black_ in, what Draco thought was, the same kitchen he’d spotted through Potter’s floo last night. Just next to that, another frame had Granger and Ginny Potter crying with laughter in the same kitchen while a pink-haired witch, who Draco didn’t recognise, sprouted a duck bill.

“Colin – Dennis’s brother, you know, took a few of those, actually.”

Draco spun around. Granger had emerged and was watching him examine her collection of photographs.

“This one?” He gestured to the one with the pink-haired witch.

“No, next to it,” she said.

The picture she indicated was much like many of the others—she, Potter, and Weasley sat outside on the Hogwarts grounds. As Granger read, Weasley practiced casting a colour change charm, accidentally turning Potter’s hair polka-dotted green instead of his scarf.

“It’s a good picture of you three,” Draco said, turning away from Granger in the picture, who was laughing too hard to perform the countercharm.

Granger standing in front of him now looked less tired than before, but still worn.

“Yeah.” She smiled. “I know Colin was trying to take longer exposure photos and I think that was one of the best ones he got. He wanted help with some of the theory on magical portraits, but was having trouble capturing a moment, rather than just animating it …”

Granger didn’t stop talking as she gathered her wallet, a ring of keys, and her wand into her the deep pocket of her coat—the same atrocious rainslicker from the night before. Retrieving his cloak from the coffee table, Draco transfigured it into a muggle peacoat of the same fine wool, slipped his wand into the band of his sock, and followed her out the door.

She continued her summary of magical photography, down the stairwell and outside onto the pavement.

“I know Colin had been working on a film – kind of patching together photos and binding them together. Then, trying to reverse-engineer the process, but I—”

Halfway through her sentence she paused abruptly, suddenly tentative. “I’m being stupid, aren’t I? You must have work.”

What? It took Draco a second to wrap his mind around her sudden change in tone, never mind her question.

“Oh. No, I – ah, I took the week off.”

How could he not have? It had been such a startling owl to receive on Sunday: married by Tuesday. He’d written his clients within the hour postponing all meetings. Thank Merlin, he didn’t have a case due in court until the end of February.

“Oh.”

Awkward quiet, which neither Granger nor he seemed inclined to break, squeezed its way between them.

They continued walking. On the opposite side of the road, a man in a white turban quickened from a brisk walk to a run and only just caught his bus. A couple passed by arguing rapidly in a language that sounded rather like Chinese or Japanese. A broad, ruddy man shouldered roughly past Draco, without a word of apology. London was so very different from Wiltshire or Diagon or anywhere Draco knew in the wizarding world. It had a bruising, blissful anonymity.

Eventually Granger asked, “So, do you work at the Ministry, then?”

“Er, no. I’m a solicitor.

“I didn’t know there _were_ wizarding solicitors.”

“Well, there aren’t many, but solicitors have worked for old wizarding families, really as long as the Wizengamot’s existed.”

“Defending the landed gentry, I see.”

“Jumping to conclusions, I see.”

Rather than repentant, her eyebrows lifted in challenge.

He went on, “No, _actually._ Almost all my clients are ordinary witches and wizards. My fees are reasonable enough that most can afford them without needing a loan from Gringotts.”

“Most?”

“I take on clients _pro bono_ if they can’t afford the fee.”

She nodded and not quite _reluctantly_ said, “Well, that’s good of you.”

They fell into silence again. Half a block farther, Draco spotted a promising black awning reading _Millstone_.

“Is that it, then?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

Though the café was bustling with office-goers darting in for a pastry on their commutes the tables were only half-filled, and they were quickly ushered to a window table in the corner. Their pasty, spotty-faced waiter, whose scarf obscured his nametag and who did not otherwise introduce himself, took Draco’s coffee order— _café au lait_ —and lacklustrely pointed them towards the menus already in the stand holder, before being off.

Millstone had the right variety of selection—enough to have options and not so many that it was hard to decide. An omelette was Draco’s typical breakfast, so it took just a minute to select the add-ins. He set his menu down and waited.

Granger frowned as she inspected her menu, deliberating for several minutes before shutting it and replacing it in its metal wire armature.

“Do you know what you’re having, then?” she asked with a glance to his menu lying flat on the table.

“The spinach and goat cheese omelette, I think. And you?”

“Yoghurt and granola.”

He’d have thought she’d get something more filling.

“Have you gotten it before?” he asked.

“Yeah, erm, a few times.” A moment later, she added, “It – it’s good.”

The spotty, teenaged waiter returned with Draco’s coffee and took their orders. Draco wasn’t quite sure if the boy had understood that he wanted the croissant _and_ the toast, rather than instead of. However, he restrained himself from checking a third time.

“Did your mother make it back to France safely?” Granger asked politely, when they were alone again.

“Everything went smoothly with the Portkey, so I assume so. She usually likes to write, though – I expect her letter’s waiting at the Manor.”

Granger nodded, going quiet again. The mention of the Manor seemed to have upset her.

It was too early and it had been too long of a night to ask about what had happened yesterday or discuss the inevitability that they would have to return to the Manor at some point. Instead, he steered the conversation to a different question that had been bothering him.

“Your parents weren’t at the wedding.”

Startled, she looked at him, taking an intentionally bland expression. “No.”

“Do they live far?”

“Er, yeah. They’re abroad right now and a bit hard to reach. It was so short notice.”

“Oh. Where about are they travelling?”

“It was a bit of a spontaneous trip, so they don’t really have an itinerary. Last I heard, they’re in Australia.”

“Well, I’m sorry they couldn’t be there.” He hoped it sounded as sincere as he meant.

“Yeah, I suppose.” She tilted her head slightly side to side. “I don’t know what difference it really makes, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just, I don’t know if they would’ve been able to anyway. Since the Ministry doesn’t allow muggles inside.”

“I imagine they’ll be upset they missed it,” he offered, wondering why she seemed so offhand about it. Mother had insisted quite firmly on attending.

“No, I don’t think so,” she said in the same nondescript tone.

For no reason that he could tell, her tone forbade further questions. With most—if all—other conversations, he would have left it at that and politely respected her obvious preference to not talk about her family. But she was his wife and that tended to entail at least some knowledge of her life.

“Really?” he asked.

“Yeah, she said stiffly, clearly annoyed he wasn’t taking the hint. “They’re both very bohemian, you know.”

Now he had the sense that she was outright lying to him. What sort of bohemians raised a daughter like Granger, a witch who was the antithesis of bohemian?

He didn’t care to pretend she’d fooled him. “If you say so.”

Once their food arrived, Draco became suddenly aware of how ravenous he was. When their waiter had gone, Granger rubbed her hands on the tabletop, before letting them come to rest at either side of her bowl. She inhaled concentratedly.

“Thank you,” she said, “for yesterday.” Reading his expression, she continued, “With Neilson, I mean. You could’ve been an arse and weren’t and – and I appreciate that.”

“You don’t have to thank me, I—”

“I know I don’t _have_ to,” she said more harshly, he thought, than she’d meant. After a breath she said, “Sorry, I know. Er, I – I want to.”

“Well, you’re welcome.”

She seemed slightly less on edge after that, though still wound tighter than a clock spring.

The omelette was fair, though pale in comparison to Puck’s culinary genius. He finished it quickly, then more leisurely buttered his toast and applied a healthy layer of jam to both croissant and toast. Across the table Granger scraped clean her bowl.

“You said you work as a solicitor?”

He swallowed his bite. “Yes.”

“Are there wizarding firms?”

“A handful, but I work independently.”

None of the firms would have hired him, had Draco applied. In those circles the Malfoys were despised. He had thought more than once of the precarious position his family had managed to land themselves in. Hated almost unanimously throughout wizarding Britain, both factions considered them cowards and traitors, still they remained—somehow—opulently endowed.

“What sorts of case do you most enjoy?”

“I like the variety more than any one type, but I suppose it’d have to be property disputes.”

“Why property law?”

“Well, they’re always fascinating. Because it’s land you have to deal with wizarding law as well as muggle – always an interesting challenge. And then, since its England, there are Merlin knows how many absurd, archaic local statues you have to figure in. But if you go about it the right way, sometimes they’re the most helpful bit.”

“What do you mean?”

And then he was off on a lively rendition of Margery Witting’s suit to claim the surplus figs from her neighbour’s fig tree since she’d been the one to enchant it to do so well in the wet British climate, which Granger seemed genuinely interested in, when the waiter came back with their receipt. Granger took it and started to go for her bag.

As the waiter walked off, Draco said, “Granger, I’m paying.”

She looked up, stilling. “Don’t be ridiculous, I invited you to breakfast, of course I’ll pay.”

“Granger,” he said simply.

“What?” she snapped.

“I can afford it. You—”

 _“Oh my god!”_ Her mouth widened into an ‘o’ as the rest of her face pinched. “You did not just – you did not – you _prick_. Well, now I _definitely_ am paying.”

“Come off it. Just let me—”

“I can afford a seven-pound meal,” she insisted.

“Why can’t you just let me – wait, _seven_ pounds?”

He snatched the receipt from her hand.

“Hey!”

Turning his shoulder towards her as a barrier against her grabs, he held the receipt beside his menu, skimming over the words. There! _Yoghurt and granola_ was at the top of the list of side dishes, only two pounds.

He looked back up at her. She’d given up and settled back into her seat.

“Seriously? You ordered the least expensive thing they serve?”

Her eyes flashed furtively. “So?”

“Did you not think I would pay?”

“Believe it or not, I hadn’t considered it. I’ve got the decency that when _I_ invite someone to breakfast, _I_ pay.” She held his gaze. “And it’s not really your concern anyway what I order.”

“I wasn’t raised to make a witch pay or go hungry, let alone my _wife_ , Granger,” he growled and was gratified to see how the word ‘wife’ affected her—that automatic wince was _so_ satisfying. “Can you look me in the eye and tell me you’ve eaten enough?”

“I’ve eaten enough,” she said blandly.

“You’re lying.”

Why must she be so stubborn? Clearly, she was hungry—anyone would be after that—but she just wouldn’t admit it.

“Malfoy, I’m _fine_. Now give me the receipt so I can pay.”

“Are you honestly full?”

 _“Yes.”_ Granger glowered at him. “Happy now?”

“Not particularly. I still—”

“Excuse me!” Granger called to their waiter, passing by towards a different table.

“D’you need anything?”

“No, just – here,” Granger pushed a few notes into the boy’s hand, “you can keep the change.”

“You sure?”

“ _Yes_. Have a nice day,” she snapped.

He shrugged, nonplussed, and continued towards the next table.

Turning back to Draco, she asked acidly, “Can we leave, now?”

“Clever. But I’m not leaving until you’ve actually eaten something.”

“What?” Granger huffed. “That’s ridiculous. I _ate_.”

He glanced over the brunch section: French toast, pancakes, waffles, _crêpes_ , and scones. Though, the full English also sounded enticing.

“Do you fancy the waffles?” he asked.

“No, I don’t _fancy_ the waffles, Malfoy. And I’m not indulging – whatever it is you’re playing at.”

“I’m simply enjoying breakfast with my wife.”

“No, you’re not!”

“I hardly think you get to decide what I am or am not enjoying, Granger.”

“Well, you’re not _simply_ doing anything. You’re attempting to undermine my autonomy.”

It was ridiculously easy to fall into the rhythm—the _fun_ —of riling her up.

“How do you expect to be able to exercise your autonomy, Granger, if you faint of hunger first?” he teased.

“ _Really_ , Malfoy. You are clearly trying to assert your authority over me. As though a woman can’t make her own choices about what to eat.”

“ _You_ don’t even believe yourself, Granger. It’s got nothing to do with your being a witch. You just won’t say you’re hungry because you can’t admit someone else is right.”

 _“Please!”_ she said, splitting the word into two dismissive syllables. “This is first. Next you’ll be telling me who I’m not allowed to see.”

“You complement me, but I’m afraid I’m not that clever, Granger. Sorry to disappoint.”

He caught the bored but curiously sceptical eye of their waiter, watching from a nearby table. He waved the boy over.

“What are you doing?” she hissed waspishly.

The waiter reached their table. “Yeah?”

Sliding into the pathetic amorous first-person plural of a dutiful husband, Draco said, “We’re actually rather hungrier than we thought. We’ll have the _crêpes_ , the full English, two _croissants_ , and another _café au lait_ , please.”

“Cool. I’ll—”

“No! No, we won’t need any of that. I—”

“Don’t worry, _dear_ ,” Draco interrupted her smoothly. “I’ll help you finish it.”

“No,” Granger said to the waiter, “you don’t need to—”

“She always worries about wasting food, you know,” Draco said conspiratorially to the waiter.

The boy looked between Granger, glaring, and Draco, smiling, and said indifferently. “We’ve got, like, you know, takeaway containers?”

“Ah, excellent,” Draco said. “And I’ll pay the bill in advance.” He pulled several notes from his wallet.

“Cool.”

When the waiter had gone, Draco finally looked at Granger more than peripherally. As he’d suspected, she looked spitting mad.

_“What the fuck!”_

“It’s ridiculous that you weren’t going to—”

“It’s not _your_ decision to make.”

“You’re hungry.”

“It’s _not_ your goddamn decision!”

“You were being stubborn.”

“It’s my decision!”

“It’s stupid.”

“I can’t believe you have the gall to order for me!”

“And you’re lying to yourself. I have more galleons than I know what to do with. Can’t you just let me buy you breakfast?”

He was almost surprised that she didn’t leave. But she didn’t. She stayed, sitting stonily as she waited for the food to come.

A few minutes in, he couldn’t resist.

“So, what happened anyway?”

“What?”

“To your award money?”

“That’s not a conversation for today.”

“And why not?”

“Because honestly, Malfoy, I’m surprised I care enough about the Statute of Wizarding Secrecy that I haven’t already cursed you.”

“Fair enough.”

A few more minutes lapsed as he tried not to, _really_ tried not to – but he couldn’t stop himself.

“About the fines, though,” he said. “I can pay them. They wouldn’t even dent my accounts, I—”

“No,” Granger snapped. “And for the record, I don’t care how fabulously rich you are.”

“So noted.”

* * *

Draco found Nym in the kitchen with Alfie and Puck—undoubtedly, Byrdie was off in her beloved gardens somewhere—and enlisted her to help with the wards. The eldest of the elves, Nym had lived at the Manor longer than anyone: she’d cared for Draco all his life and had raised Father and Grandfather before him. Nym had an elegance to her, evocative of the sort of prideful, self-effacing honour code that could only come from commitment to an age-old legacy.

House elves and their range of rarer cousins—brownies in Britain and farfadets in parts of the Continent—treasured their earthen dedication. Playful, but deeply industrious, they’d tended to forests and wilds before they served wizards and witches. Originally, elves and wizards had pledged themselves, together, to the land and to the old natural magic. But gradually, as land had succumbed to cities under the press of Christianity and modernity, wizarding life shifted from the simpler agricultural ways to commercial economy. So deep-rooted was elves’ allegiance to wizards by then, that they’d followed wizards, pledging themselves to the service of households and families. As wizards turned away from old customs and magic and forgot the origins of the elves’ fealty, the elves did not forget. They remembered. Even when wizards named themselves masters, elves clung to the dignity of their service.

Nym’s mother, Hesper, who had died before Draco was born, had passed onto Nym the lore and secrets of the Manor that the elves of their family had kept and upheld going back to Armand Malfoy and Nyx the Elf, Nym’s however many greats grandmother. For over a century and a half Nym’s magic had intertwined with the magic of the current Lord Malfoy and ancestral blood wards, guarding over Malfoy Manor and its inhabitants.

Every fibre of that heritage of dignity polished Nym shiny. Her greyish bald head always tilted up proudly. She wore her rags like an ethereal toga, twisting and braiding in new scraps—sometimes daisies, like a brooch.

It took the afternoon with Nym to close off the floo for the drawing room fireplace and revise all the wards to accept Granger. Exhausted, Draco would have been more than happy to collapse in his own bed straightaway. But nothing had been decided with Granger. Despite her worries last night, now that they’d temporarily settled at Granger’s flat, she seemed content to stay. She hadn’t mentioned returning to the Manor, and he couldn’t figure out how to raise the matter. At some point they _would_ need to go back. Her lease ended at the end of the month and the Manor was their only residence registered with the Ministry. The question of the loomed.

Yet, it didn’t need an answer tonight.

Draco packed himself a small holdall, making sure to include a bottle of dreamless sleep, and left the Manor just as the day was fading. It was a sight, watching the setting sun cast the Manor in silhouette from behind.

* * *

Draco arrived back at Granger’s flat and opened the door with the spare key she’d lent him, to be met by a swell of orchestral music and sounds of clashing metal in the dark flat. Softly, he shut the door and peered into Granger’s living room.

Ginny We – Potter and another witch who looked vaguely familiar from Hogwarts and—possibly—from something in the _Prophet_ , sprawled across Granger’s sofa while Granger herself nestled in a neighbouring armchair. The television illuminated their faces.

“Merlin,” Ginny Potter was saying. “I still haven’t the faintest how the muggles make this work, but I’ll snog the pants off whoever invented telly.”

“It’s a film, actually—” Granger began.

 _“Shhh!”_ Potter interrupted, without pulling her eyes from the television.

The other unknown witch turned, smiling, to Granger. “Hermione, Ginny doesn’t _honestly_ want to know.”

Granger’s brow crinkled. “It’s not that complicated. They just—”

“Oh, go find Dad,” interrupted Potter. “He’d love it. I just want to see what happens to this mask guy.”

The unknown witch rolled her eyes. “Ice cream anyone? Ginny? Hermione?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Granger answered.

“There’s no more cookie dough,” said Potter.

“I guess that’s a _no_ , then.” Rising, the unknown witch turned towards the kitchen and caught sight of Draco. “Oh! Hermione, Malfoy’s back.”

“What?” Potter’s gaze snapped to him.

Granger merely sat up straighter in her chair, shifting her cocoon of blankets, and looked up.

The other witch was halfway across the room to him, extending her hand. “Hi, I’m Audrey.”

“Draco,” he said, shaking her hand.

Audrey had a light but enthusiastic grip and an intelligent smile.

“Nice to meet you, Draco.” She flashed him another knowing smile as she stepped into the kitchen.

“Granger. Potter. How’s the—”

Potter snorted. “No. Yeah, that’s too weird. Just call me Ginny.”

“You _did_ say it was Potter yesterday,” he pointed out.

“Well, it _is_ , and you’d called me Weasley.” She shook her head. “It was weird then too – I mean, who still uses fucking surnames? But I couldn’t tell you to call me Ginny—I was threatening you.”

 _“Ginny!”_ exclaimed Granger.

“What?” Potter – Ginny asked, unfazed. “It wouldn’t have been intimidating.”

From the kitchen Audrey chimed in, “Hermione, she’s right—it wouldn’t have been intimidating.”

“That wasn’t what – oh, never mind.”

The clanging of metal from the telly had died down and a gentle swell of music rose up.

“Incontheivable!” came a lisping voice from the telly.

“Oh my god! Ginny, you have to watch! The next scene’s _so_ good,” Audrey said, re-emerging and settling back onto the sofa.

Should he join them? The question seemed to hang in the air between Granger and him. Her doe eyes were on him, and peripherally, he thought, both Audrey and Pott – Ginny’s eyes were on them. Feeling foolish, like a trailing puppy, if he asked aloud, he arched an eyebrow in question. Granger gave the faintest of nods.

“Oi, budge over.” Pot – Ginny immediately drove an elbow into Audrey’s side, which confirmed that they’d been watching them.

He settled beside Audrey and attempted to concentrate on the film.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed—or didn't—any and all reviews are very much welcome and appreciated. I really love hearing your feedback, constructive criticism, or rambling thoughts and reactions. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> A note about the elves’ names: In the canon, Dobby’s name is drawn from an English word for a mischievous household ghost or fairy. I kept this tradition in naming the other Malfoy elves: Alfie’s name is a modification of the Old English word ælf, which is where we get the word ‘elf’ from; Puck’s name comes from the word ‘puck’, meaning a mischievous spirit, and—of course—also refences the trickster fairy called Puck in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Nym’s name is a shortening of ‘nymph’; her mother’s name, Hesper, name is taken from the Hesperides of Greek mythology, who were the nymphs of the evening; and Nyx (Nym’s many-greats grandmother) shares her name with the Greek goddess of night, who by certain accounts is the mother of the Hesperides. Byrdie is the outlier—her name comes from the Old English word inbyrdling, meaning a slave born in a master’s house, which seemed fitting for a house elf.
> 
> P.S. Chapter Seven: The Surviving Brother will from Dennis’s perspective and should be up August 2!  
> P.P.S. As I said at the top, I’ve added more to earlier chapters—nothing plot-significant, but new paragraphs here and there (especially in chapter four).


	7. The Surviving Brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the big news is … drumroll, please … this story has a new title!  
>  _When the Jig Is Up_ is no more and will from now on be _Pièce de Résistance_. I decided to change it because I’ve felt for a little while that this story has outgrown my original title from when I began writing this fic five years ago back before my hiatus. To me, _Pièce de Résistance_ fits the story (and where it is going) much better. However, the fic will remain searchable in both AO3 and FFN under _When the Jig Is Up_ , so hopefully nobody has too much trouble finding it. And as ever, thank you for all your lovely reviews and encouragement!  
> Anyway, here is chapter seven (a few days late but longer than planned). As much as I adore Draco with a good, old Slytherin squad, I wanted to take somewhat of a different direction. May I now formally introduce Dennis.  
>  _ **PLEASE NOTE:** This chapter depicts physical violence and pain (nothing gory or very explicit), contains strong language and mean language, and deals with grief surrounding the canonical death of a character._ If you are worried about the depiction violence, pain, and/or unkind language, then I recommend that you skip to the Tuesday, 9 July 2002 heading after Dennis says, “What’s that supposed to mean?” If you are worried about the discussion of a grief then I recommend skipping the chapter—unfortunately, it’s not easily avoided in this chapter. I am happy to provide a summary and/or answer questions for anyone who needs to skip, please just ask.  
>  _I have updated the story tags accordingly to be safe. Going forward, I will update tags and warnings as I write them and will include notes (such as this) at the beginning of chapters when necessary, but a number of tagged elements are consistent themes. Please read as will be enjoyable and healthy for you. (If this is a benchmark that helps at all: as best I can predict this story will stay M rated.)_  
>  Shorter note next time. I hope you are healthy, safe, and well.  
> -AFOR (August 5, 2020)  
> P.S. There was an error in earlier chapters that has now been corrected: Rose is a Hufflepuff, not a Gryffindor.

_Friday, 21 June 2002_

Dennis _knew_ he was in a rotten mood, and it only made him angrier. Everything irritated him: how the sticky summer humidity lingered from the afternoon’s rain, how Jimmy laughed louder after each drink, how Ruth couldn’t take her eyes off Jimmy, how their waitress was flirting with Ritchie, how nobody seemed able to talk about anything other than the Ministry’s shit-brained marriage law, and—worst—how strong his firewhisky was, even though it still wasn’t strong enough.

It had been such a _bloody_ long day—a _bloody long_ week. Just Sunday, he’d been sitting in a folding chair on the Hogwarts grounds beneath an overcast Scottish sky as Professor McGonagall sent him and the other seventh years off with tried and tired platitudes. Curfew violations, firewhisky, and Rose had filled the next several days. Then, Tuesday morning the owls delivered the _Prophet_. _MINISTRY’S NEW MARRIAGE LAW: MANDATED LOVE?_

All Dennis’s graduation plans had plummeted a few hundred feet. With marriage suddenly looming on the horizon in massive, Ministry-mandated letters, everything seemed distorted: Rose’s plans for wandmaking, his apothecary internship, their apartment together. And all the glorious, choking uncertainty they’d been dreading for months, anticipating for months, now had a guillotine waiting to cut it short. Five years—four for him—never seemed nearer.

Dennis had left all his packing for last minute anyway, so the news had only turned the chore into a needed distraction and concentrated his focus. Wednesday, though, the Hogwarts Express back to King’s Cross had been utterly soured. He and Rose had secured a compartment and successfully driven off interlopers with some, admittedly, heavy-handed snogging. But after most of the students had settled in, he and Rose had spent the majority of the trip back to London reading and rereading that morning’s _Prophet_ as well as the special edition _Evening Prophet_ from the night before.

And Dennis barely remembered where Thursday had ended and Friday had begun. He’d gone home to drop off schoolbooks and pack up summer things and belongings, then had shrunk it all down, moved into Ruth and Jimmy’s flat, and started unpacking. Graduated, packed, moved, and unpacked in a week.

Tonight was supposed to be a celebration of all that with friends, so he was trying to keep in good spirits—he _really_ was—but damn, if wouldn’t be satisfying to punch somebody. Not anybody in particular, mind, just a nice, solid punch.

“You _wish_ you had my coffers,” said Draco Malfoy snidely over his shoulder, walking into The Hopping Pot.

Dennis recognized all four of the others with him as Slytherins several years above him at Hogwarts. Two of the three blokes and the girl had been the same year as Malfoy. The reserved, fair-skinned, chubby-cheeked bloke with slightly mussed brown hair had been in the papers occasionally around the news of his father’s arrest: Theodore Nott Jr. Names escaped him for the other bloke, a thin, handsome, Black man whose head was close-shaven, as well as the grinning girl with a smattering of spots across her pink cheeks who had her sandy brown hair pulled into a loose ponytail. But the shorter third bloke with deep ochre skin, a short-bridged nose, and friendly crinkles at the corners of his eyes had been a few years above the others. He was walking arm-in-arm with the girl, rolling his eyes to her about whatever Malfoy was saying.

“Well, they’re worse for wear now,” quipped the handsome, Black Slytherin.

“What’s a hundred and fifty thousand galleons?” Malfoy shrugged, smirking.

Laughing at something the waitress has said, neither Ruth, Ritchie, nor Jimmy had noticed Malfoy and the others enter. Laughter subsiding, Ruth brushed away a tear from her eye.

“I’ll get you that round, then,” the waitress said with a wink to Ritchie and took the empty pitcher with her.

“So, who’s this bird I hear you’re with? And how come I’ve not met her?” Ritchie teased. “I don’t even know for sure she’s real, do I?”

Dennis forced a smile onto his face.

“Afraid she’ll fancy a beater better than you?” ribbed Ritchie, brushing a hand across his forehead, just skimming the edge of his afro.

“Reserve,” Ruth tacked on, in a deadpan. “Reserve beater.”

Jimmy laughed enthusiastically, and Dennis’s own smile felt more genuine.

“Better than you,” Ritchie said to Jimmy.

“I don’t need loads of concussions, now do I?”

“Says the man atrophying behind a desk.”

“True enough,” Jimmy conceded. Tiredly he rubbed at his forehead. “God. Earlier this week they had me copy out files then do it again a different way, then once I’d binned the first lot they decided they liked it better the first way, so I had to do it all over again. I’d give anything to be on a broom all day.”

Clearly not having intended to genuinely lower his mood, Ritchie amended, “Don’t have to worry a bad hit’ll do you in, though, right? The stable career’s smarter than what I’m doing.”

It’d been surprising, when Dennis had returned for fourth year after the war, that Ruth had taken such a liking to Ritchie and Jimmy. She was subtle and graceful where they were not. Despite him, Jimmy, and Ruth all being in the same year, his friendship with Ruth had always stayed separate from his and Colin’s friendship with Jimmy and Ritchie, who was Colin’s year. It had been his and Colin’s absence that Ruth, Jimmy, and Ritchie had bonded over during the year he and Colin had spent in hiding.

When Dennis returned for fourth year it had been very different: Colin was gone, leaving a gaping silence; Ritchie was a seventh year, thinking about life after Hogwarts; Ruth and Jimmy were now a year above him, beginning to prepare for their O.W.L.s; and Dennis could not share in their struggle to recover from months of abuse by the Carrows. His fourth year, grief had bound them together and filled in any cracks that there might’ve been in their friendship.

The next year Dennis, Jimmy, and Ruth had grown closer, but on the Hogsmeade weekends he wasn’t playing a match Ritchie would visit and the four of them would spend nearly all of Saturday huddled around their favourite table in The Three Broomsticks.

Sixth year had been much the same as fifth—Saturdays spent with Ritchie in Hogsmeade and late nights studying in the common room—but it couldn’t be avoided that Jimmy and Ruth were seventh years and Dennis was not. The closer the end of term drew, the more N.E.W.T.s and after-Hogwarts plans had pushed Jimmy and Ruth together. Interestingly, few enough sixth years had opted to take Alchemy that all four houses had been lumped into one class. And what had started out in February as a partner assignment with a random Hufflepuff quickly filled the hours of spring term that Jimmy and Ruth were off studying, as well as a good portion they were not.

This past year, with Jimmy and Ruth gone, his friendship with Rose—or more accurately, flirtation—had blossomed. After one false start in November, he and Rose had found their stride in January, and things had been going well since. They’d agreed to take it slow, but still it had been hard as graduation approached not to inadvertently factor her into his plans, and he sensed it was the same for her as well. So, he’d moved in with Jimmy and Ruth to their flat in London and would begin his apprenticeship at Slug and Jigger’s Apothecary on Monday. And Rose was staying with her parents through the summer, waitressing at The Leaky and Fortescue’s while she waited to hear about the Ilvermony Heritage Wandcraft Internship. If they accepted her, she’d leave for America in late August and stay through early June.

As with everything else, they had no idea what lay ahead: if she’d get it or not, if they’d have weeks or months. But since Ritchie had spent the spring flying reserves for the Caerphilly Catapults he had yet to meet Rose. And he’d grown rather insistent that he meet her— _really_ get to know her, see what sort of bird she was. It’d be good Dennis kept telling himself, though it was hard not to think of how limited his time with Rose might be. Hard not to be impatient with anything that would eat away at happy summer afternoons just them alone.

Tonight, though, Rose was having Shabbat dinner with her grandparents and Dennis had all night to put up with good friends. The waitress brought them another pitcher of butterbeer, and he ordered two shots of gigglewater, which helped, and second firewhisky. And soon enough Jimmy’s laughter was familiar, Ruth’s sheep’s eyes were endearing, the chips and vinegar were _excellent_ , and Ritchie’s poor attempts at seduction were the funniest thing he’d seen.

As the evening wore on, despite himself, Dennis was having fun.

Even after Ritchie left early to get back to Wales for his match the next day and even though Jimmy had gotten himself plastered, it was wonderful to talk with Ruth. Side-by-side in the booth her pixie-cut brown hair balanced her square jaw and flushed cheeks, and Jimmy was rugby-tanned as always, his blond hair wet with beer sweat. Ruth seemed content to lean into Jimmy’s side and talk with Dennis late into the evening just like they had done so many times back in the Gryffindor common room.

They talked about nothing and everything: she despised the new summer collection from Madam Malkin’s but Gladrags had introduced muggle styles into their selection brilliantly. And well, sure, marketing quills and stationery was a bit dull, but she liked Scrivenshaft’s well enough—at least enough to stomach it another year or two, until she’d saved enough to cover the Istanbul Institute program in magical history.

And it was hard sometimes for him to think about the future when he felt behind everyone else. But he didn’t really think she or Jimmy had it all together, did he? Well, it did seem that way and sometimes it was hard not to. But couldn’t he see they were just as confused as he was? Her plan was to go for the history mastery but maybe she wouldn’t, and she had barely even had a chance to think about how the law would affect things. So, who even knew what she’d be factoring in two years from now. Yes, _exactly!_ He was going through that now with Rose—if she went to America what would that mean for them?

A quarter past midnight, with Ruth off in the loo helping Jimmy hurl his insides into some sink basin, Dennis paid the tab for the table and headed outside to wait. In a quiet spot on a side street of Diagon, just off Carkitt Market by its lesser-used entrance, and not many passers-by wandered past The Hopping Pot tonight. Overhead, the stars glittered down at him through the magical dome shielding Diagon from all of London’s ordinary light pollution and smog: their own private window into the universe right there in the middle of the city. The summer warmth was nice, the stars were sparkly, and the butterbeer was sweetening his veins.

The door to The Hopping Pot swung open, and Malfoy’s group pushed outside, settling a couple metres down the pub’s wall from Dennis. Only the Slytherin who’d been a few years above the others—the shorter man with deep ochre coloured skin—was having a smoke, the others just talking. As he lit and sucked on a cigarette, his girlfriend coughed pointedly.

“Greg drank – I _swear_ it must’ve been ten shots before he was pissed enough to even try to go for Pansy,” Nott said, continuing with the story he’d been telling. “She told him to fuck himself. I mean, _obviously._ ”

Malfoy shifted, plucking his wand from his robes for something to hold. “Greg still won’t write me back.”

“That’s not really much of a loss though, is it?” snickered the handsome, thin, Black Slytherin.

“You’re a right git.”

The older Slytherin blew out a lungful and sighed. “Why do you waste your time with that idiot, Draco?”

Before Malfoy could respond, the thin Slytherin coughed on the cloud, “I don’t understand why you insist on smoking, Adrian—I mean the smell _alone_ – how do you stand it?”

“Because he’s _addicted_ ,” the girl answered with a reproachful glance at her boyfriend, the one they’d called Adrian.

“I’m not,” said Adrian, and tapped his cigarette so a few cinders fell onto the cobblestone.

Laughter rose from the others. Malfoy leaned rigidly against the stone wall of The Hopping Pot, twirling his wand. The thin man held Theodore Nott’s left hand, inconspicuously stroking his thumb against the back of Nott’s knuckles. And the girl stood close to Adrian, batting the cloud of smoke away from her face.

“It’s a filthy muggle habit,” said Nott.

“Please, Theo. Have you got to say it like that?” groaned the girl.

“Theo’s not wrong,” defended the thin bloke.

Adrian shook his head. “The two of you.”

“Come off it, Adrian,” said Nott.

“Off what? You and Blaise still believe in blood purity. How am I even supposed to argue with someone who’s never eaten a bloody cheeseburger?”

Ah, that was right: Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini.

“A what?” sneered Zabini, still thumbing Nott’s knuckles.

“This is what they want,” Nott said. “Us to kill ourselves on muggle poison and fall for their food and fashion until we lose our magic or they can burn us alive. They’re trying to destroy us—Clafton, Potter, the lot of them. Why else do you think they passed the law?”

“Do you even hear yourself?” asked the girl contemptuously. “Merlin, Theo, I don’t even know why I put up with you.”

“You like the law, then, Daph?”

“Of course not!” she snapped.

“Really, mate?” asked Adrian, and his hand not holding his cigarette came up to wrap reassuringly around his girlfriend’s waist. “Don’t say that sort of shit to Daphne.”

Nott shrugged. “You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve overheard witches saying this week—the number of mudblood bitches scheming to get their hands on a _real_ wizard ….” he trailed off ominously.

Dennis turned fully and stepped towards the cluster of Slytherins. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

All five of them looked over sharply, noticing him for the first time.

“The fuck?” muttered Nott.

“What d’you mean _real_ wizard?” Dennis asked again, moving forward until he was standing just outside the group’s semicircle.

“Wait.” Zabini glanced over him a second time. “Aren’t … aren’t you the – no, you’re the _brother_ of the one with the camera, aren’t you?”

“And what if I am?” asked Dennis.

“Nothing.” Zabini shrugged. “Just wondered why he’d be in Diagon, since he’d died.”

 _“Blaise!”_ gasped Daphne.

“Sorry,” said Zabini unrepentantly.

Nott hadn’t looked away from Dennis. “I’ll bet you’re happy—you can get your grubby hands into our vaults now, isn’t that right? You and your brother—mudbloods always do chase after better wizards. Shame he chose Potter.”

Cold, dreadful fury numbed Dennis’s chest—like the breathless pang after running hard. Any other night—

But damn, if he hadn’t itched to hit somebody all night.

Dennis’s fist connected with Nott’s cheek and a gratifying ache spread across his knuckles.

Nott stumbled back, hunching over. “What the fuck!?”

“You muggle _cunt!_ ” Zabini’s fist slammed into Dennis’s nose.

Hot, metallic pain pulsed loudly in Dennis’s ears. Blood dribbled down, between his lips and onto his tongue: coppery and salty. He staggered backwards and down. Against his palms the worn cobblestone was cool and damp.

“Stop it, Blaise!” Malfoy shouted.

How – how dare they? _Since he’d died … just wondered … wondered … our vaults … chase after better wizards … Potter—_

No! Colin hadn’t chased after anyone. He’d dreamed of photojournalism and when the most famous wizard of their time had walked in front of his lens, he’d taken his shot. Every opportunity he had, Colin had put his beloved camera to use—the one that Mum and Dad had saved up to buy him for his Hogwarts gift. Colin had been no one’s ankle-biter.

When Dennis looked up, Zabini was rooted to the street, cursing at Malfoy and struggling to unstick his feet as Adrian and Daphne held back Nott.

“You fucking mudblood!”

Trying to undo Malfoy’s sticking charm, Zabini aimed his wand at his feet—in just seconds he’d realize that he could as easily turn his wand on Dennis.

Dennis yanked his own wand out of his sock band, scrambling to his feet.

“Hey!” Malfoy caught Dennis by the arm, knocking his wand out of his hand. It clattered to the cobblestone. “What are you doing?”

In a second Malfoy had Dennis’s back against his chest, arms wrapped around him firmly, trapping him and keeping him from reaching his wand. _Christ,_ Malfoy must’ve been half a foot taller than him—a fair bit more muscular too—and Dennis was practically enveloped in his grasp.

“Let me go!” Dennis struggled, twisting and turning in the tight grip. He jabbed an elbow hard into Malfoy’s ribcage.

Malfoy grunted. “Seriously?!”

But Malfoy’s hold only strengthened. Dennis jerked abruptly one way then the other, trying to throw him off.

“Would you _just_ ,” Malfoy panted as Dennis writhed, “stop – _fuck! – moving?_ ”

Malfoy readjusted his hold and then—still in his hand from charming Zabini—Malfoy’s wand was suddenly within Dennis’s reach.

With a kick to Malfoy’s shin, Dennis pulled his left arm free. His fingers pried at Malfoy’s right fist, trying to wrench the wand away. Malfoy’s arm around his chest tightened, his elbow digging painfully into Dennis’s side. Dennis’s grip on the wand was slipping, except – _no!_ Dennis clawed harder.

Malfoy’s hand opened, the wand fell, and with a two sharp kicks, Malfoy sent both his and Dennis’s fallen wands skittering across the stones into the shadows.

“You kicked my wand!”

“Well, now you can stop trying to duel Blaise.”

Like Dennis cared if he had got a wand. It was Nott, standing there smugly, who’d said what he had about Colin and Zabini beside him, who’d hurled slurs unflinchingly.

“Let _go!_ I don’t need a wand. Let me go! Colin’s a million times the wizard you’ll ever be! Any of you!” Dennis shouted, thrashing, and rammed his elbow backwards.

 _“Fuck!”_ Next to his ear Malfoy inhaled sharply and said over coughs, “Come on, you don’t want to do this.”

“Sure, I do,” snapped Dennis, panting.

“You know, if you do this, all you’ll be is the muggleborn who attacked Blaise Zabini and wasn’t civilized enough to do it with a wand.”

“Fuck you, Malfoy!” Dennis kicked backwards and missed as Malfoy sidestepped. “Fuck you!”

“Honestly, it’s not like _that._ ” Malfoy sighed, still holding him firmly. “Actually _think_ about it.”

“LET ME GO!” Dennis pushed hard against Malfoy’s forearms trying to get away so he could wrap his hands around Nott’s and Zabini’s necks. But Nott first.

“You don’t want to do this,” insisted Malfoy.

Dennis pushed harder, Malfoy’s muscles tensing under his fingertips. “Why do you even care?”

“I don’t know,” said Malfoy in a straining, calm voice. “Just thought _you_ might, Creevey.”

With a high, shrill _creak_ , light spilled out into the street.

The door to The Hopping Pot was wide open, and standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the overflowing light, Ruth and Jimmy stared out at them. Outlined in brightness and chiselled shadows, Adrian and Daphne had their wands drawn and raised, watching him and Malfoy apprehensively. Zabini had freed himself from Malfoy’s sticking charm and had one arm slung protectively over Nott’s shoulder while the other hung at his side gripping his wand. Together, Zabini and Nott’s eyes glittered meanly.

For a moment everyone around him and Malfoy stayed motionless.

 _“WHAT!?”_ Then Ruth was rushing forwards. “Dennis!”

He stilled, exhausted, and Malfoy eased his hold.

Ruth’s hand latched vicelike around his wrist and pulled him from Malfoy’s grasp. In her heels she was about Dennis’s height and did not make a particularly intimidating figure, but she drew him to her side defensively anyway.

“What’s going on?” she asked, looking sharply between Malfoy and him.

Breathing hard, Dennis said nothing.

After a moment, Malfoy frowned. Through ragged breaths he started, “He … er – he—”

“He fucking punched me!” yelled Nott.

“Dennis, _really?!_ ” Ruth’s grip around him squeezed harshly against his bruising muscles.

“You didn’t hear what he said about Colin—” Dennis stopped short. Her scathing glare had wilted pityingly.

He sighed. “It’s nothing. I—”

A jet of purple light drove into Dennis’s sternum like a knife, lodging in his lungs, heart, veins.

“Blaise, what the fuck?!” someone shouted.

Around Dennis people were moving and saying things, but the world was spinning, his eyes were slammed shut, and all the air was gone from his lungs. It hurt so loud. And the loudness all around him hurt. And something was pushing at him. Something shouldn’t be pushing at him—pulling at him?

“Come on.”

There was a gentle pressure against his arm.

“We need to go.” Ruth tugged at him.

“I … uh, I – I can’t.”

Little lights spun against his eyelids. They were so distracting, moving in strange patterns like a million camera flashes.

“Dennis.”

“No.” He groaned, trying to focus on something other than the demanding, dizzying lights. “No, I need – I need my wand.”

“What? What happened to your – no, Jimmy, he said he needs his wand.”

Now the lights were moving, shifting, dancing a waltz around him, faster and faster: a stampede of electric sparks, sizzling and flickering.

Over shouts and murmurs, Ruth’s strained voice in his ear was loud. “No, I don’t know what happened, Jimmy. He said he doesn’t have his wand. Well, how would I know where it is? Can’t you just summon it, please?”

The lights’ electric waltz quickened and morphed into asterisks, hash marks, ampersands, and dollar signs swirling like Saturn’s rings around and around and around in neon sunspots.

Then, his wand pressed into his hand and his fingers wrapped gratefully around the wood. There was some firm pressure under his arms and Dennis was being carried.

* * *

_Tuesday, 9 July 2002_

The small advert in the _Prophet_ ’s classifieds had not prepared Dennis for how muggle the office would be. It was a posh waiting room: nice hardwood floors, plush carpets, leather armchairs, artful black and white photographs of proud albino peacocks in frames on the walls, and several healthy potted plants that seemed more the doing of Samar, the pretty receptionist, than the rest of the room did. When Dennis had come in, she’d efficiently finished readjusting a beaded pin in her hijab, introduced herself with a smile, and copied down his message before waving him to the chairs to wait.

“Creevey?”

Dennis looked up. Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway, looking utterly confused.

“Malfoy, you have a few minutes?” Dennis asked, standing.

“Er – yes. Sure.”

The building was not large, and Malfoy’s office was not far—just down a short hallway that had only one other door along it. Law was not what Dennis had imagined Malfoy would be doing, much less in a firm of his own, and even less with information pamphlets that advertised in full-sized font: _negotiable fees and pro bono counsel available, as needed._

Compared to the waiting room, Malfoy’s private office looked decidedly magical: in wizarding style, the furniture was a century and a half out of date by muggle standards, some of the books on the selves quivered ever so slightly, and expensive quills filled the pen holder on the desk. On the wall facing his desk a wizarding photograph hung prominently of the same albino peacocks from the waiting room. They strutted proudly amongst a grove of short, gnarled trees.

Turning away from the photograph, Dennis took the open chair and waited while Malfoy circled his desk and sat.

“So, I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

 _All you’ll be … do it with a wand … not civilized enough … all you’ll be is the muggleborn … the muggleborn._ Actually, Dennis hadn’t been able to _stop_ thinking about what Malfoy had said for the past two weeks.

Malfoy’s expression crystallized smoothly into impassivity. “I say a lot of things.”

“About how it’d look if I fought Zabini.”

“Ah, well … yes.”

“Yeah, and I don’t get why you said it.”

“Oh.” He gave a slight twinge of surprise, but otherwise stayed as still as the glassy surface of the Black Lake.

“I mean,” Dennis asked when Malfoy had still said nothing more, “do you believe what you said?”

Malfoy frowned mildly. “I’m not really sure what you mean.”

“Do you believe I’m less of a wizard than you?”

“I never said that.”

“Whatever. Nott said it or whatever. Do you believe it?”

Malfoy shifted, considering. “No.”

Why did it take that long to – what? Make up his mind?

“Zabini and Nott do,” Dennis pressed.

“Yes.” Placid water lapping at the shore. Not even splashes from the giant squid.

“And they’re your mates?”

“Well,” Malfoy gave a small sour laugh, “I haven’t got many left.”

“And you think the Prophet believes it?”

“I think the Prophet would print it in other words.”

“Is there a difference?” asked Dennis.

“I think so,” Malfoy said.

“So, you think the Prophet would make me out to be uncivilized and less of a wizard because I’m muggleborn?”

“Oh, they’d make you out to be anything that sells copies.”

“So, you were – what? Warning me?”

“Well … well, I supposed so. Yes.” Malfoy looked almost as surprised as Dennis. “I didn’t want you to prove Blaise and Theo right.”

Slowly, Dennis said, “I can’t decide if I believe you.”

“Oh.”

The hints of ripples—waves—were tantalizing, and the glassy surface infuriating.

“You – you called me a muggleborn.”

“Yes?” asked Malfoy.

“I mean, you—” It was strange how sincere Malfoy seemed. Tight-lipped but sincere. “So, you – like _honestly_ disagree with them?”

“Yes.”

“But they’re still your mates.”

“Well, I – you know, there are only a handful of wizards even willing to talk to me, never mind be seen with me.”

“Probably’d be more if you weren’t mates with blokes like Zabini and Nott.”

“I doubt it,” Malfoy said seriously.

“What d’you mean you doubt it?”

“I was a Death Eater,” Malfoy said matter-of-factly. “Not many wizards are going to forget that. Merlin, it’s hard enough that everyone hates me. But I reckon it’s easier getting Theo and Blaise to ignore how soft I’ve than it is to expect someone’ll be willing to look past the _actual_ terrible things I’ve done.”

“They think _you’re_ soft?”

Malfoy nodded.

“And you _honestly_ think that I’m as much of a wizard as you?”

And the waters were calm but inviting.

* * *

_Saturday, 14 September 2002_

They had a tenuous … well, _friendship_ was really the only word for it. They had a tenuous friendship, although a far more comfortable friendship than it had been on any of those first nights out back in July. Since Rose had left for America, and with both his flatmates deeply infatuated with each other, Dennis had rather little to do in his spare time. With friends who were either similarly entwined or whom he didn’t particularly care for, Draco also had rather little to do in his spare time. And luckily enough, their spare time very often coincided. Which had all led to their rather unsteady, tenuous friendship.

“Where in America is Rose again?” Draco asked, sprawled aristocratically across Jimmy’s second-hand couch.

“Massachusetts.”

“And she likes it?”

“Oh, yeah. Apparently, it’s amazing, what she’s learning and she really likes the other students in the program – says it’s a bit weird with all the younger kids, you know, a bit like being back at Hogwarts, but good, yeah. I dunno. She seems happy, but it’s hard. I really miss her and I – I don’t know. Like, what’s gonna happen? It’s a whole year. What if – if she meets someone?”

Draco glanced sideways at him. “Are you joking? Did you even see her before she left? She’s clearly worried _you’ll_ find someone else.”

“What?”

“She gave you a _ring_.”

“So?” The thin silver band inlaid with a stripe of some iridescent stone sat wrapped around his left index finger.

“It’s an old courtship tradition,” Draco explained.

“It is?”

“It’s supposed to symbolize the connection between a witch’s and a wizard’s magical cores. You’re left-handed?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, silver is one of the best magical conductors. Moonstone too. The ring is _literally_ amplifying your magic.”

“Moonstone. That’s what this is?”

“Yes.” Draco rolled his eyes. “Did you not pay attention at all in Potions?”

“Wow.” The effort Rose had taken stunned him. She’d been so casual about it—just something she’d picked up—and since he’d just given her a signed copy of Ollivander’s book it hadn’t seemed like anything more than a thoughtful gift. She hadn’t said. “That’s – that’s … wow.”

“Feel better now?” Draco asked, amused.

“Well, a little.”

* * *

_Thursday, 5 June 2003_

Dennis flung open the downstairs door. “Happy birthday, mate!”

Draco grinned, taking in the red party hat strapped to Dennis’s head. “Thanks again for doing this.”

“It’s your _birthday,_ mate!”

“Sure,” Draco agreed good-naturedly, following him upstairs. “It’s my birthday.”

The flat was all theirs tonight: Jimmy and Ruth in Istanbul for the week while Ruth finished the last of her interviews for the mastery in magic history. And Rose would still not return from America for another week.

Dennis had not seen Rose for five months, since he’d visited her over the Christmas holidays. Hanukkah had been early, so they’d belatedly lit her menorah and then quietly enjoyed their snowy Christmas together in the mountains. The visit had been wonderful, but a little awkward and entirely frenzied. Now, in June, despite the many letters and weekly calls over the months apart, there was no telling how it’d be when she arrived back. They’d developed a comfortable cadence over the phone and in writing, but it wasn’t the same as in-person. Letters took a few days to arrive, so phone calls were always somewhat summary and stilted and—on Rose’s end—were often interrupted when the payphone ran out of change. How well would they readjust to being back in each other’s company? Stomaching the pet peeves rather than savouring a brief, snatched week of them?

And then there was Dennis’s full-fledged friendship with Draco, was which perhaps the biggest change for Rose to adjust to. While he loved Ruth and Jimmy and Ritchie dearly, his friendship with Draco was different—if in large part because he didn’t share it with anyone else. Draco was a friend all his own and he was a friend all Draco’s own.

Especially living with Ruth and Jimmy and seeing them every day, it was Draco who Dennis went out for drinks with, Draco who dragged him all the way to Paris and made him sit beside _Narcissa Malfoy_ through entire incomprehensible wizarding opera, and Draco who he took to cricket matches on Saturday afternoons just to see him squirm with boredom and whine that this was shite compared to quidditch. Because for all that Draco complained and groaned, Dennis never doubted that he’d much rather spend his day at the Oval than with Nott or Zabini.

When Dennis opened the door to his flat, revealing four dozen balloons and the—ridiculously overpriced—croquet bush something or the other that he’d had specially ordered, Draco flushed pink. They ate and drank and watched _Chariots of Fire_ … again, and just after quarter past eleven Draco tossed an envelope at him.

“Go’ahead,” Draco slurred. “Go. See who it’is.”

“You alright, mate?”

Draco shrugged and waved vaguely towards the envelope.

Taking the letter out of the envelope, Dennis glanced at Draco again. “You sure?”

“Go on.”

He unfolded the letter. In big print at the bottom was printed: _HERMIONE GRANGER_.

“See,” Draco said morosely, rubbing his eyes. “The fuck am I s’posed to do?”

* * *

_Saturday, 15 January 2005_

Dry stone competitions were not—by _any_ means—a brief sort of event.

Which Dennis _may_ have underplayed when he’d forcefully invited Draco to join him, Rose, and his parents for the Buckden Dry Stone Walling Winter Meet. From eight sharp until one, wool-jumper-clad guild members heaved and placed and balanced stone upon stone: four feet tall and two feet deep, the whole way along a six metre stretch of wall.

Leaning down to Dennis’s right ear, Draco grumbled lowly, “Why did I agree to this?”

From when Draco had slipped into the passenger seat of Dennis’s parent’s Ford Escort at a quarter to ten that morning in front of the local apparition point, the whole drive from Skipton to Buckden, and now the hour and a half since they’d joined his parents, it had been: Why would anyone schedule this for January? And who bloody wanted to watch someone stack stones anyway? Didn’t Dennis know that Draco hated the tightness of muggle cars? Given the two hours of whining Dennis had put up with already, it wouldn’t really be _that_ mean if he just—

“Hey, Dad!” Dennis called, making his father turn from where he and Mum were standing a few metres ahead. “Do you remember the name of that poem by Frost? Draco asked and I’ve forgot.”

“Mending Wall,” his father called back. “It’s the second poem in _North of Boston_ , published in 1914. You know, Draco, it’s a stunning piece. Stunning. It’s like Shakespeare, right? You can’t just read poetry, you know? You’ve got to hear it. You ever heard Mending Wall before?”

Many thanks to his childhood etiquette lessons, Draco had successfully arranged his face into an expression of cordial interest. “Er – no, I don’t know if I—”

“Excellent!” Dad said. “You’re in for a treat, then. A right, good treat.”

Sparing just one furious glance over his shoulder at Dennis and Rose, Draco crossed the little way over to where Simon and Lisa Creevey were watching the contestants’ progress.

“Awful, you are,” Rose murmured to Dennis, drawing her coat tighter around her and winding her arm more firmly around his.

“Tell me you haven’t wanted to hit him all morning.”

“Well, he’s worse than usual today,” she agreed.

He sighed. “It’s the wedding. He’s stressed.”

“Don’t you mean the marriage?”

“Who’s awful now?”

Rose laughed and took hold of his hand—her right arm now fully twined with his left—and let her fingers skim gently over his ring. He’d worn it every day for the last two and a half years since she’d given it to him.

They’d had an intense few. Just before New Years Dennis had realized that Ruth’s five years and his four had dwindled down to just a little more than two and one.

Rather than resolutions, he had written out a list of the conversations they still needed to have before they could get engaged. Both he and Rose had agreed that by February it be decided: either the conversations would have revealed an irreconcilable difference, or they’d be engaged. Not that his parents hadn’t been hounding him for an engagement since July, but now he and Rose had decided: February first and no later.

So, there were a number of serious conversations being had: about children, about religion, about money, about work. They had determinedly set to peering beneath very facet of their lives to sort out their futures and whether or not those futures had a future together. And it seemed—as best Dennis could tell—that they did. Just Thursday night, they had ticked off the third to last of the big conversations and Rose had hinted that she was perfectly ready right then and there for him to propose. He’d insisted that they wait, as planned, until all were finished.

“But can’t you celebrate just a little,” she’d asked. “We’re almost there. We still like each other. Cheer up.”

“I’m happy.”

Keeping eye contact, Rose had squinted doubtfully. “Yeah?”

“I _am,_ ” he’d insisted.

Fiddling with his fingers, she’d nodded. “Okay.”

“I _am_ happy, Rose.”

“Good.” She’d spun the ring she had given him around his index finger before slyly sliding it up past the knuckle and off, then—with a shy look to him—she’d slipped it onto his left ring finger.

“You’re really sure about this, aren’t you?” he’d asked.

“Yeah, I am.”

“I am too. It’s just – you know, it’s that like we’ve talked about—if there wasn’t the law I feel like we’d both take a little more time before getting engaged and – I just want to make sure that we both know where we’re coming from.”

“No, I know you do. And – and I really appreciate that.”

“Alright.”

She’d played with the band now on his ring finger quietly for a minute. “How does the ring feel, though? Like if it was for real right now, how does it feel?”

Dennis had smiled. “It feels alright.”

“Comfortable?”

“Yeah. Like _really_ comfortable.”

Dennis hadn’t moved it back. Mostly because each time she caught sight of it a pleased smile unconsciously stretched across her mouth.

So, it had been an intense few weeks for sure, on top of which was Draco’s new marriage, which they’d attended the ceremony for on Tuesday and which Dennis had supervised Draco’s preparatory sulking for on both Sunday and Monday. Today with it done and over, Draco seemed less aimlessly on-edge and, instead, had a more directed agitation—now that he could concentrate on _actual_ rather than imagined problems.

The dry stone competition continued on through the light drizzle that descended not long after noon, and when the whistle was blown at one the five of them—all shivering from the wind and rain—squeezed into the Ford Escort for the drive back to the dairy farm in Nidderdale.

* * *

The loss of Colin had left a quiet, constant awareness amongst Dennis and his parents: the sort of forgetful stillness when the liveliest of the group was out for an afternoon. Except it was every afternoon. Every afternoon without clumsy clangs, exclamations from the makeshift, years-untouched darkroom in the basement. Every afternoon without a blinding burst of light right when the answer to the crossword was almost—nearly just—on the tip of Mum’s tongue. And before they remembered that it was every day and every day forever, the quiet was almost nice, relaxing. And then they’d remember like drowning, and sometimes Dad would run to the kitchen sink to gag, or Mum would slip out to the laundry line for an hour, disappearing behind the sheets and returning red-eyed.

But they made it through afternoon tea and parcheesi and the beginnings of cooking supper with Rose and Draco to fill in the quiet before Mum noticed Dennis’s ring.

“Simon! Simon, good Lord! Simon!”

“Dennis!” Dad gasped, following her pointed finger. “Dennis are you really? You’re – you’re not just pulling our leg, are you?”

Once they had got through their first dozen questions and Rose had explained clearly and firmly and repeatedly that _no,_ they were not engaged yet, Dennis caught Draco’s eye deliberately.

“Actually,” Draco began, “I – well, speaking of marriage, I got married this week.”

“What?” Mum cried as Dad asked, “Dennis, why didn’t you tell us?”

“That’s wonderful, Draco!” Mum amended.

And then with another round of questions.

“Hermione Granger, do we know her?” Dad asked.

“Yes, yes – no, you remember, Simon? We’ve seen her in the paper – with all the hair? She’s the one who Harry Potter isn’t having an affair with.”

Out of the corner of his eye Draco held back a laugh.

And soon enough Mum and Dad sensed Draco’s discomfort and the questions fell away.

And it wasn’t until Dennis and Rose were driving Draco back to Skipton that Draco finally admitted, “It’s just that she doesn’t talk to me. We’re _still_ at her flat. I don’t know what to say—the DMFS could come any day and find out. I swear, I’m going back to Azkaban.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews, constructive criticism, or rambling thoughts and reactions are all very much welcome and appreciated.  
> A few notes about a few things: The dessert Dennis gets for Draco’s birthday is _croqu-en-bouche_ —a caramel-fused tower of choux pastry puffs. Although the Buckden Dry Stone Walling Winter Meet is sheer fiction, dry stone walling competitions and guilds are real and a number of them take place in the North Yorkshire area around Buckden. And lastly, the Robert Frost poem “Mending Wall” mentioned by Simon Creevey is real and worth reading over.  
> P.S. Chapter Eight: _The Sunday Edition_ will be up August 30, and I am honestly _ecstatic_ to share it with you soon—it’ll be from Hermione’s perspective.  
> P.P.S. I am looking for alpha/beta readers. If anyone is interested, please let me know.


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